


Sins of the Father

by Menzosarres



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, West Wing AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-15 12:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5784586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menzosarres/pseuds/Menzosarres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regina Mills is starting her second year in the Oval Office caught between a war she didn’t start, a conspiracy she can’t seem to shake, a staff she doesn’t trust, and the never-ending pressures of being a single mother trying to run a nation. Bringing in a new Press Secretary is the last thing she has time for, especially one as abrasive and inconvenient as Emma Swan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first part of a(n at least) seven part Swan Queen West Wing AU originally posted on tumblr. You shouldn’t need any real familiarity with the show to follow it; I pretty much just threw our favorite ladies into the White House and let things happen, while shamelessly stealing inspiration from Sorkin. 
> 
> If you want to see me ramble about my dubious AU decision-making process, that's at the end.

##  _Boston, Massachusetts  
__January 4 th_

_ /// _

“This is the wrong day for you to turn up here, Kat.”

“I can see that,” Kathryn Nolan managed, unable to stop staring at the spectacle on the other side of Emma Swan’s apartment door. Half of a broken vase and a few bedraggled daffodils were dangling from Emma’s fingers, the other half lying in pieces around a large, groaning man, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. His wrists were handcuffed together, and he seemed to be bleeding in a few places. When he blinked dumbly up at Kathryn, she thought she detected the start of one hell of a black eye.

Emma’s shirt was drenched and distinctly see-through, and her pants were missing entirely. Kathryn couldn’t actually tell if there was underwear involved; thank God for long shirts.

“What do you want?”

Kathryn stumbled around in her brain for the words she’d intended to start this conversation with, but couldn’t find them anywhere. “Well, I… Maybe an explanation, first. There’s a man on your floor.”

Grumbling, Emma stepped through the door, closing it behind her, hiding the bleeding man from sight. Just as it clicked shut, another door down the hallway opened, voices drifting towards them, and Emma glanced down at her own bare legs in apparent surprise. She yelped. Whirling around, she opened the door again, grabbed Kathryn by the wrist, dragged her inside, and shoved the handcuffed man back out the way they’d come, ignoring his protests and the sounds of porcelain cracking under his knees as he flopped out into the hall. She slammed the door in his face.

“Emma, what…?”

“Job went a bit south, alright? Some idiot judge actually gave him _another_ shot after he skipped bail the first time. His dad’s a city councilman or… something. He’s pissed I tipped his fiancé off about his affairs, his drug problems…” As Emma rambled, she wandered into a side room, fishing a pair of jeans out of the dryer and struggling to tug them onto her damp legs. “Barged right through the door like he owned the place. I think I need a new lock.” Sure enough, a glance over her shoulder revealed a chunk taken out of the wall through which Kathryn could clearly see the deadbolt. “Caught me just getting out of the shower. He came back to ‘teach me a lesson.’ Or so he said between bouts of yelling.” She snorted. “I brained him with a vase.” She jerked a thumb at the remnants scattered across the floor. “Or… it might have been an umbrella stand, actually. It was always kind of an ugly vase. Shame, though. I liked it.”

“Emma, what are you _doing_?”

Emma blinked up at her, halfway out of her damp shirt. “What? I’m changing. Little wet over here.”

“I mean with your _life_ ,” Kathryn muttered, glancing away from her half-naked friend and taking in the tired, functional apartment: the industrial laundry room to her left, the strange mix of mudroom, living room, and half-partitioned kitchen she was standing in, where a pile of letters seemed to be getting acquainted with clean but un-shelved dishes on the counter. “You practically fell off the grid. Do you know how hard it was to find you here?”

“Oh.” Emma shrugged. “Hazards of the job, I guess. Can’t really afford to have a high profile. I’m working for justice, don’t you know? We’re not so different, you and I.”

“No,” Kathryn muttered. “I really don’t.”

“I’m bail-bondsperson-ing. Being a bail-bondsperson. It’s… fun.” She wandered around the corner into the small kitchen, and Kathryn followed behind. “You should try it sometime,” she added, cracking open the fridge. “The adrenaline…”

Kathryn took the beer Emma offered. She tried to change the subject. “My boss wants to hire you.”

“…the seedy bars, the morning greeting calls from assholes holding very personal grudges and, wait, what?”

“I’ve got a job for you. A real one.”

“Your boss. Kat, if this is a joke, I—”

“For this, I’m Kathryn Nolan, White House Communications Director, Emma, and I—”

“—I know who your boss is!”

“Then you know I’m in the unique position to offer you something that’s… once in a lifetime, really.”

Emma crossed her arms, shaking her head. “I’m not a team player. I do better on my own.” 

“And yet you spent five years in PR.”

“ _And yet_ the last six people I worked public relations for all fired me, one after the other.”

“Then it can hardly hurt your reputation if this doesn’t work out.”

“Kat…”

“The President is… impressed. You handled that Congressman’s affair really well.”

“He didn’t get reelected, and he fired me.” Emma handed over the bottle opener. 

“Well, I mean… the other thing. What you did. At your PR job. With that… those TV people, you were fronting the whole modern ah… swords… thing.” Kathryn knew she was struggling, but she hadn’t really expected to need much of a sell. It was a job for the President, after all, and it had to beat beating up random men with your home décor.

“You mean the _Camelot_ run? The firm fired me when, despite my best efforts, Asshole and Edward moved up _Clickfeed’s_ most prominent racists of Hollywood list to number three last year.”

“Look, Emma, the President needs you.”

“The President doesn’t have a clue who I am, does she.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I—Well, no,” Kathryn admitted. “But I said I’d get the best, and I’ve got full discretion in this, and I’m telling you, you’re the one for the job.”

“What job?” Emma finally asked. “You haven’t even told me what this once-in-a-lifetime gig is.”

“Press Secretary.”

Emma stiffened, nearly losing her beer through her nose. “Woah. Hang on, Kat, I…” She set down her bottle and leaned back against the counter. “I’ve done my number of PR gigs, but that’s a whole nother league. I’ve barely worked on the state level, and you want to throw me straight to the wolves? I thought you were talking advertising or, I don’t know, Deputy, _maybe_ , but you want me to be the… the voice of the administration? I keep up with the news. You guys are in deep shit with the media right now, you’re clashing with the military, losing every battle in the legislature, and your last Press Secretary—”

“—was a pushover. He was a pushover. He was too polite, too academic, and too… cagey. He stood up there every day and sounded like he was lying through his teeth, even if he was very _gracious_ about it. We need you, Emma. We’re taking the gloves off, now. It’s our second year, and we want to get things done. We need someone who…” Kathryn trailed off for a moment, glancing back towards the door. “…doesn’t pull punches. Or at least carries around an ugly umbrella stand.”

Reluctantly, Emma chuckled. “Well, that’s the nicest way I’ve ever been called a bitch before.”

“I’m not kidding, Emma. You’re perfect for us right now. We don’t want someone nice. We want you to be critical, to be blunt, to be _mean._ You’re fantastic at reading people, you don’t trust anybody, and, yes, you’re kind of an asshole. But you’re grounded. You’re smart. You have experience, with Congress, with the military, and with… people. And if we want the press to know we couldn’t give less of a damn what they think of what we’re going—”

“Kat—”

“—then you’re the one for the job.”

“—I’ve got a job.”

Kathryn arched an eyebrow and finished off her beer in silence.

“What? I do!”

“You really want to have your house broken in to for a living? What was it before this, again? Running intervention for the son of that ambassador who wouldn’t stop turning up wasted in alleys behind sex clubs? You’re better than this.”

“Kat…” Emma sighed, gathering their bottles and crossing to the recycle bin.

“Say yes, Emma.”

“I didn’t even vote for her!”

“What?” Kathryn’s throat actually hurt from the octave jump her voice had just decided to take. “You voted for _Hanks?_ You. Emma Swan. Voted _Republican?_ ”

Emma visibly flushed. “Well, no. I meant in the primary.”

Kat couldn’t keep from rolling her eyes. “Fine. So you like a self-declared populist; she can live with that. You’re allowed to pick wrong in the primaries.”

Emma’s lips quirked up in half a smile, but she didn’t rise to the bait. That was surprising. The Emma Kathryn had known in college would have flown off the handle defending her choice. The Emma Swan she knew… took about as well to being called wrong as that man in the hall took an umbrella stand to the head.

“I didn’t even bother with the general,” Emma admitted, interrupting Kat’s thoughts. “Registering in Massachusetts felt like a lot of work for nothing. Surprise, surprise, we went blue.” 

Kat had to bite back a smile. Emma was _embarrassed_. “You’re the most appalling representative of political literacy I’ve ever met, you know. What happened to those ‘Get out the vote!’ signs you and I waved around for four years?”

Emma shrugged. “Ask me again if I end up in Florida… Iowa… Virginia… You don’t need my vote in Boston.”

“Emma…”

“I wasn’t going to go out of my way to vote for her.” 

“ _Emma…”_

“She’s a hawk!”

Kat fell silent for a minute. There it was, the trademark Swan spark, the intense conviction that certain choices in this world were just _bad ones_. “She inherited the war, Emma, she—”

“—escalated it. Don’t tell me she hasn’t made it worse. She’s dropped more bombs in her first year than ‘Drone King Leo’ did in eight.”

“And look where he got us.”

Emma sighed. “Look, I’m not saying she’s awful, but I’ve never really trusted Democrats with war. At least when the Republicans are doing it, the Democrats are working against them every step of the way. When a liberal hawk gets in there, no one stands up to us. The protests don’t happen the way they should, no one tries to cut military spending, and more people get killed.”

“So come work with us.”

“ _Kat—”_

“—I’m serious.” Kathryn reached out, resting a hand on Emma’s wrist, making sure she would get the eye contact she wanted. “You have a problem with our administration. Alright. What better way to make yourself heard than working in it?”

Emma was quiet for an uncomfortable stretch of time. Kat wasn’t even sure she was still breathing.

“You really think I can handle this?” she finally asked, turning away. 

Kathryn bit back a grin at the hint of resignation in her voice. “I really, really do.”

When Emma didn’t say anything else, staring out the window over the Boston skyline, Kathryn pressed, “The right answer is ‘I serve at the pleasure of the President’, you know.”

Blinking, Emma faced her again. “Not yet, I don’t.”

Kathryn stopped hiding the grin. She pulled Emma into a hug, ignoring the damp hair. “You’re gonna love her, Emma. You won’t regret this.”

* * *

##  _Washington, D.C.  
__January 21 st_

_ /// _

“I… It might as well be  _across the hall!_  You’re putting me _here_?” Emma spluttered.

“There’s at least three rooms between you and the Oval Office. The Press Briefing Room is closer to the President than you are, which is kind of the point. You’re important, but you’re not _that_ important. Relax.”

Emma reluctantly pushed open the door, purposefully bumping into Kat as she passed by.

The office was impressive, and surprisingly spacious compared to the cubicle-like cramming she’d seen walking down through the other halls. A slim row of bookshelves and filing cabinets claimed the far wall, while a massive dark wood desk and surrounding cream-upholstered chairs matched the long, striped curtains around the single window, taking up most of the remaining space. There was a tiny yellow couch in the far corner that didn’t seem to match anything else at all and looked too small for more than one person to comfortably sit, but Emma liked it immediately, even if the rest of the office wasn’t really to her tastes. It didn’t need to be. This was her work space, as evidenced by the stack of papers already waiting on her desk. 

“Do I at least get fifteen minutes to catch myself up or were you planning to throw me to the wolves first thing?”

“You get five,” Kat admitted. She had the good grace to give off at least the halfhearted illusion of contrition. “Then ten with me and a few other faces from the communication staff, then a three minute tour of the Press Room, which might be two minutes if we can’t keep them out that long.”

“Them?”

Kat fidgeted, shuffling from foot to foot. “The press.”

“You’re introducing me half an hour after I walked in here?”

“Yes.”

Emma groaned. “Out. Get out. Give me my five minutes.”

As soon as Kat left her alone, Emma meandered into the corner and poked the couch, rubbing the grain the wrong way until a darker streak of agitated golden fabric marred the perfect surface of this strange little piece of furniture. She wondered which eclectic prior politician it had belonged to, that it couldn’t be hidden away with the rest of the world’s offending eye-sores masquerading as places to sit. She grinned, feeling a hint of that same uncanny delight as she did growing up in the northeast, rolling around in pristine snowbanks, making her mark by destroying the unnatural perfection of a cold, white winter. 

Voices interrupted her before she could actually sit on the couch, though, piercing right through her paper-thin walls and immediately ruining the half-formed fantasy that she might even be able to nap on this yellow thing when her future hours demanded an inhuman stint in the office.

With this kind of acoustics… not a chance.

“It’s bad press, ma’am.”

“I can’t very well decide that for myself if you won’t tell me the story, Kathryn.”

Emma’s ears latched onto the sounds. She’d heard that voice before. Many times, actually, but always with the barrier of a television screen between her and it, low and sharp, biting, but wrapped in that eerie, wet-silk smoothness Washington seemed to cultivate so well. That sounded like President Mills, and she didn’t sound too happy with her Communications Director.

“I just wanted to give you a head’s up, ma’am. We’re going _strictly_  no comment. A highly decorated navy lieutenant, Milah Shelley, was arrested this morning. It was all done internally, non-violent, full warnings issued, by the military police, and she’s being threatened with discipline, possibly discharge, after having an affair with a married officer.”

Emma stepped cautiously towards her door as the voices rounded the corner. Kat was walking side by side with the President down the hall, steps almost eerily in sync. A single secret service agent paced just behind the two women, keeping a distance that gave the illusion of having a private conversation as his eyes continuously scanned the bustle of the West Wing around them. The President looked… taller, in person, Emma realized. They were probably close to the same height, minus those extra inches of executive heel, and her dark eyes were intent on the woman at her side, full attention given to Communications Director Nolan’s words, even as another staffer meandered by, pressing papers and a mug of coffee into her hands. She paused only a few feet away. Emma watched with faint amusement as Kat, the staffer, and the agent lurched forward an extra couple of steps before swelling backwards, placing themselves in their positions of intuitive importance, right outside Emma’s new office door.

“I fail to see where I come in,” President Mills muttered, skewering Kathryn with a piercing stare that Emma, even just caught in the periphery as she was, could feel prying away a layer of secrets from behind her eyes. She shivered, impressed despite herself with that practiced manipulation of power. “Or, for that matter, why this is happening at all. I didn’t think an affair broke military law.”

“It’s an affair with a junior grade lieutenant… a woman.”

Emma could see Regina stiffen. “And I’m _not_ supposed to comment on this?”

“I just wanted you to have the heads up,” Kathryn insisted, and Emma winced. Even from this one, brief meeting, she had gotten the impression that President Mills wasn’t going to take well to being managed, and that was the most blatant brush-off Emma had seen in a long while. It looked like Kat might need some help getting back into fighting shape. Who’d have thought the White House would let you go soft?

“Milah Shelley?”

A third voice entered the conversation, approaching from the other end of the hall. Emma took a second trying and failing to identify the figure—a generic, pale, aging man with dark hair and a sharp, pinched face—but when she noticed the cane he held, she quickly placed the newcomer as the President’s Chief of Staff, Mr. Gold.

President Mills turned his way. “If this is on your radar, I should probably know more. Since when does adultery go against the uniform code?” 

“It doesn’t,” Gold offered, and Emma wondered at the origin of his accent. She had taken the time to brush up on the issues she would need to be current on for the press, but in the two weeks since Kat had offered her the job, she hadn’t had quite as much time to research her coworkers. “But fraternization is discouraged, and besides, this clearly has nothing to do with the affair; the arrest is for failing to follow an order.”

Regina frowned at her Chief of Staff. She knew she had been running late all morning, but this was starting to sound more and more like something she _did_ want to be involved with. “Someone  _ordered_  her to stop seeing the other woman?”

Kathryn hummed her agreement. “Her commander, then a captain, too. She refused.”

“She’ll be discharged for that?”

“Could get two years prison time,” Gold elaborated, and Regina felt her frown rapidly creeping towards a scowl. She hated starting the morning scowling. It tended not to go away until she’d thoroughly pissed off the press or fired some poor underling who hadn’t actually earned her wrath.

“Who are the players?”

“Besides the military courts? I’m sure a women’s group is going to pull together to represent her, possibly even the ACLU, but you can’t give it any time. You’re on thin ice with the Joint Chiefs as it is. If you’re really pressed for a statement, you—in your capacity as Commander-in-Chief, of course—just remind everyone that you don’t override the decisions of your commanders. You have full faith in the American military.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Madam President, I really have to insist that—”

“—you give me the other perspectives? Here, now? Excellent.”

Emma winced as Kathryn began crumpling the edges of the folder in her hands. “Ma’am… The story’s only getting attention because… she’s brilliant. Broke a lot of barriers, a lot of first as a woman, with experience on _Ticonderoga,_  even _Los Angeles_ class warships… She’s flying helicopters off a _Wasp_ , now. Her records in amphibious assault are… uncontested. No one is implying she wasn’t a great sailor.”

Regina glanced back towards her Chief of Staff. “You wouldn’t intervene?”  

“No.” He folded his hands over the head of his cane, one on top of the other. “I’d see her discharged. It’s going to happen regardless.”

“It seems like an overreaction.”

“It’s about chain of command,” he replied, calm and disinterested.

Regina narrowed her eyes. “We took all the time with chain of command getting her to the point where she’s so good at her job that firing her makes the national press, and we’re wasting our own investment because she fell in love? Has someone reinstated Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell while I wasn’t paying attention?”

Gold opened his mouth again, but Regina shook her head, casting her eyes around at the ring of faces that had been gathering, each clearly wanting a moment of her attention, but who seemed to have been struck dumb by a bit of arguing among the senior staff. “Anyone else going to weigh in? I’m looking for _perspective_ here. Why shouldn’t I get involved? This reeks of the worst of what comes out of our military, a lot of old prejudice, and it’s going to look even worse if I ignore it.”

“She disobeyed an order,” Emma muttered quietly, half to herself. The conversation had drawn her in, despite her better judgement and the pressing desire to actually have five minutes on her own before the insanity started.

The President turned towards her voice. Emma swallowed against a sudden lump of nerves in her throat, but that stare slid right over her, and Emma could tell she hadn’t identified who had spoken.

“Yes, I understand. But who in their right mind gives that order? In this day and age, how is it practical to—”

“—You want your average Navy lieutenant going against their superiors to decide what’s practical and what’s not?”

Regina sought out the source of the disagreement and found an unfamiliar face lurking in the doorway of an office she was pretty sure she’d fired someone from less than a week ago. “Of course not,” she said, reflexively answering the accusation even as she pieced together a first impression of _blond, plucky, and uninteresting_. “But this isn’t your average Navy lieutenant, or your average command decision.”

“That doesn’t change—” Emma began, but the President was already talking over her.

“Are we going to pretend that there aren’t a thousand men in the services who are committing adultery as we speak? Is anyone here actually that blind, or are we just pretending for the sake of an easy press day?”

“I’m sure in five minutes, you could get me a hundred names,” Emma admitted, trying not to show just how much she was already regretting stepping through that doorway and speaking up. “But I can just as easily hand you the Uniform Code, Article 134, and remind you that these men and women are risking their lives for each other; they earned their own discretion in their own courts.”

Regina amended her initial impression. _Blond, plucky, smart, and probably has a death wish._ Whoever she was, she was quickly creeping into the bad side of Regina’s mood. “Discretion to dismiss a female officer for something a man would be handed a box of condoms and given a slap on the back for? Don’t tell me this, this… Amalia? This—” She glanced over at Kathryn, the name already forgotten.

“Milah Shelley, ma’am,” Kathryn supplied.

“—this Milah can’t be trusted to tell the difference between a combat order, and someone nosing into her personal life.”

Emma shook her head, exasperated. For a first impression of the Commander-in-Chief, she didn’t seem to know much about the military. “They’re all combat orders.”

“Not an order against falling in love!”

“It’s not about love.”

Regina’s scowl deepened, and two young aides who had been standing between her and the woman picking a fight scuttled quickly to either side, leaving the space between them clear and sparking with Regina’s anger. “Excuse me? You would imply that, with another woman, this is somehow different than any other instance of fa—”

“—I’ve _been_ in the Military!” Emma finally snapped.

Across the hall, Emma could see Kat flinch, and she knew why. It had been Kat’s idea, after all, her enlisting. Kat had been stuck watching from a distance as Emma fell further and further into bad habits after high school, breaking laws with a boy she didn’t love because the foster care system had all but chased her away from her own future, from a home and the school that came with it. Kat had said it might be good for her, to join up, to get the discipline now and the free college that came after, and, to some extent, it was. The structure chafed at her through one tour, so she got out as quick as she could, but she and Neal had been one robbery or stolen car away from prison, and instead, she made it back for six years of higher education, all, it would seem, to land herself here, standing in the hallway of the White House, arguing with the President of the United States.

“When people say they fell in love overseas, it’s a lie. There’s no time for love on duty. Mutual panic, maybe, and that all-consuming sense of always running out of time, or even just tired, old-fashioned lust, but I can guarantee you Milah Shelley isn’t getting discharged for falling in love.”

Regina’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t enjoy having her premise changed just to argue semantics. “Lust, then!” she pressed, stepping closer, all but forgetting the rest of her staff as she fixed her stare on this unfamiliar woman who was pushing when she was well past the point of tolerating being pushed. “No one should be punished for _lust_ , either.” She searched the calmly confident expression across from her for any hint of intimidation, but the stranger didn’t seem remotely inclined to back down.  

“She’s getting disciplined for engaging in a relationship against a direct order from her commanding officer.”

“Or, she’s getting _punished_   for being gay.”

Emma shrugged. “If that’s true, it’s terrible. It doesn’t change the facts. She disobeyed the chain of command.”

Regina let a sound of disgust escape from her throat, turning away from the door and back towards her waiting staff. “Someone get this broken record out of my hallway.”

Emma stiffened, shooting Kat her best _whoops, sorry!_ look as her frazzled friend and boss-of-one-day hurried towards her, looking ready to bodily force her back into the office and chain her to the desk if it soothed the President’s anger. Emma wasn’t about to be caged, though, new job be damned. “You wanted perspective,” she added with a shrug.

The President spun towards her again, and for a second, Emma actually thought she might start her tenure at the White House with a slap across the face from the Commander-in-Chief. Instead, there were eyes only inches from her own, furious questions sliding quick and angry from between a pair of dark lips so close, Emma could see a faint scar curving up towards her nose that had always been artfully hidden on television. 

“Who is this person? Where did she come from?” She glanced around at the staffers closest to her, then the security lingering against the walls, blinking, recovering her cool, smoothing down her skirt, before finally settling her gaze on a distinctly guilty, shifty-eyed Kathryn Nolan.  

“She’s your new Press Secretary, ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dubious decision-making ramble:
> 
> For the record, I actually did some thinking (surprise!) when trying to insert a very not-political Emma Swan into the mess of the West Wing, and finally settled somewhere between amusement at the thought that, God, Emma would be a hilariously abrasive disaster in PR work and the simultaneous slow realization that the job on the show most often analogized with going into battle, standing alone on the front lines, having to con the entire nation day in and day out, is Press Secretary, and really, while Emma Swan and C.J. Cregg couldn’t be less alike, scrappy, jaded, ex-thief-turned-reluctant-Savior Emma might be abrasive in PR work, but she wouldn’t necessarily be bad at it.
> 
> (And at that point, I figured… you know what… screw AU convention. Screw forcing parallels. Why would I want to parallel a show when I wanted so much more, even back in season one? I wanted Regina’s life as a single mother given the credit it was due. I wanted her to have an actual friendship with Kathryn Nolan. I wanted fifteen other things, and this is my AU, so I’m doing what I want.)
> 
> Ahem. There you go.


	2. Chapter 2

##  _Washington, D.C.  
__January 22 nd_

_///_

Regina rubbed her temples with two fingers and took a lingering sip of coffee. There were staffers bustling about her, moving in and out of the Roosevelt room, hardly sparing a glance for its four a.m. occupant who really should have been sleeping till her wakeup call at six. No one would dare comment on Regina’s lack of sleep. Instead, food silently appeared. She glanced up at the oatmeal that had been set out for her. Even with the warm scent of chia and peach filling the room, she wasn’t hungry, but she could hear Henry’s voice pleading in her brain. _Mo-om. You gotta eat_ something _. You’ll be too tired to play!_ Of course, it had been a few years since Henry’s earnest eyes had just crested the edge of her desk, begging for a quick game of charades or waving a sheet of scribbles—Words? Pictures? At that age, it was hard to tell the difference—in her face, demanding something so easy, a smile, a quick word of praise, but something that had seemed all too difficult when she was caught up in the thick of her Senate bid. That time had long since passed, but if she could make time for the memory, she could make time for the oatmeal, and she could make time for a few extra minutes with Henry this evening. Chat about school, if nothing else.

Letting the warm food thaw away the last stiffness of the morning, Regina scanned one of the reports in front of her.  

It was an impressive stack. When Regina looked up from her reading, an indeterminate amount of time had passed, and she had been left alone in the conference room with nothing but her cup of coffee and someone’s empty paper plate flapping listlessly in front of the nearest air vent. For the first time, she noticed the low beep of her alarm reminding her of the day’s first appointment. Her coffee had gone cold. Wrinkling her nose, she pushed it aside and carried the files on Emma Swan with her into the hall.

She had a breakfast meeting with several leading members of both parties, including the aggressively conservative Speaker of the House.

“Don’t,” she grumbled to some young, well-intentioned staffer trying to hand her a glass of orange juice. “No citrus. Maybe—” A second away from giving in to the draw of cocoa for comfort in the face of the worst of her opposition, she realized that walking into a meeting with both coffee and cocoa would be overkill for anyone, let alone the President of the United States. “—apple, if you must. Or cranberry. Or… something.”

The kid nodded, spilling juice all down the front of his white dress shirt in the process. “Yes, Mrs. President, er, my bad, Madam President. Be right back, ma’am.”

It was going to be a long, long day.

///

Kat was manic in the morning. “You’ll be in with the press at eight today, then I’ve got us both sitting in on a strategy session with the interns on the energy team, then back here to regroup, and after that, the President wants to see you.” She plunked a mug on the desk in front Emma. “In case she doesn’t fire you the minute you set foot in there, let me introduce you to my Deputy.”

“I thought only me, the fresh meat, and you, the masochist, would be in this early,” Emma muttered into her coffee, staring up at Kat through bleary eyes. After a stumbling introduction to the press yesterday, Emma had been up most of the night watching articles about her past pop up one after the other, waiting to see which of her prior failures would be most likely to get poked at in the next few briefings, only to get blindsided after just a few hours of sleep by an even less convenient story to start the news cycle.

Someone with a mic had caught the President on her way in that morning and asked about Lieutenant Milah Shelley, and, of course, the President had answered.

The sound bite was everywhere. In fact, there it was again, playing on not just one, but two of the news screens that took up a good slice of her book shelf.

_“Corporal Robert Tucker. Private Jonathan Newman. Lieutenant David Lee. Captain Isaac Rees. Ensign Jack Collins. Lieutenant Brandon Rich. Airman Sean Day. Private Harry Cooper. Lieutenant Commander Blake Morgan.”_

Emma couldn’t even see a scrap of paper anywhere. She wondered if President Mills had been up all night memorizing those names, because she’d been able to verify that they all were, in fact, real people. At least the President had done her research.

“ _Each and every one of those men engaged in a known affair while on active duty, and remain in the service to this day. I could give you a hundred more names just like them, but that would be a waste of time for the both of us.”_

Even watching it for what must have been the thirtieth go around, Emma wanted to hit her head on the desk. She was the one who’d brought it up, after all. “I’m sure in five minutes, you could get me a hundred names,” she had recklessly taunted the President of the United States, and now she was eating her words.

 _“Madame President—”_ the reporter tried to cut in, but Regina Mills hadn’t finished.

_“—Of course, as Commander-in-Chief, I don’t override the decisions of my senior officers. I have… full confidence in the American military.”_

Emma wondered if Kat wanted to take back that phrase as much as Emma wanted to take back hers. It was the line she’d asked for, after all, but when Kat’s perfect sound bite came right on the heels of such a blatant demonstration of the inherent discrimination in the Shelley case, President Mills couldn’t have sounded more mocking. _Full confidence in the sexism inherent in the American military,_ she might as well have said. That list of names was a direct challenge to the Judge Advocate, and this particular president really couldn’t afford to be clashing with her military on any more fronts than she already was.

Before the reporter’s demands for clarification could end the clip, a hand appeared right beside Emma’s nose. “August Booth, Deputy Communications Director.”

Slowly, Emma turned her head away from the screen, looking up into a scruffy, youthful face that was smiling at her far too genuinely for this ungodly hour of the morning. It took her a second too long to register the invitation for a handshake, and she had to chase his retreating fingers a few inches before she could make contact. They shook uncomfortably close to his stomach. “Booth…” Emma weighed the name. She really needed to get her hands on some of the personnel files everyone pretended they didn’t have. This was the White House. There were files somewhere. Still, she knew “Deputy Communications Director” really meant “speechwriter,” a thankless job putting words into someone else’s mouth for peripheral acknowledgement on the best of days, but it also meant this dark-haired man with his well-before-nine-o-clock shadow and unappealing beige tie wasn’t someone she wanted to play word games with, but was someone she was going to be working with pretty often. “Any relation to—”

“—Wayne? No. John Wilkes? Yes, distantly, many times removed, and yes, I’ve had the irony pointed out before.”

Emma tried not to read the interruption as rude, but he had one of those passively dismissive voices she usually found on young men with inflated egos they may or may not have earned. “Well then. I’m Emma Swan.” She offered the belated and probably unnecessary introduction as she finally remembered to wave towards the chair and offer him a seat. It was taking her longer than she thought it would to get back in the habit of workplace etiquette that didn’t involve handcuffs and umbrella stands. It would be awkward for her to stand up now, but she didn’t really like talking at eye-level with anyone’s hips, either.

He shook his head, declining the seat. “I’ve got another meeting in a few minutes; Kat just wanted to make sure we’d been introduced. As long as you don’t bring up the Booth thing every time I stick Lincoln in one of the speeches, you and I should get along fine,” he finished with another calculatedly-disarming grin. In another beat, he had turned away.

Emma frowned at his rapidly retreating backside.

“Nice to meet you,” he added, spinning around to meet her eyes for just a second from the other side of the doorjamb.

Before she could reply, he was gone.

Emma turned her frown on Kat instead.

“You’ll get used to him,” she said. “He’s magic on paper, but in person… he’s always a bit of a stranger. Don’t take it personally. If you need the right way to spin a quote, he’s your man.”

“And if I need a way to spin the names of nine American servicemen who just got their infidelities made into a national headline?”

Kat visibly blanched. “That one is your job and yours alone.”

“Kat…”

The Communications Director was already making for the door, scuttling around Emma’s desk with the look of a particularly pitiful house centipede circling the drain in a wash of tap water.  

“ _Kat…_ ”

Holding the doorknob in one hand, Kat at least had the grace to say, “ _So_ glad we have you onboard, Emma!” before she made her escape. From the hallway, she called, “I’ll see you in the Press Room at eight!”  

///

“Emma!”

“Emma!”

Raised pens and fingers filled the air in the Press Briefing Room the minute Emma finished giving the President’s basic agenda for the day, reminded everyone about their energy initiative, and opened the room to questions.  

“Emma!”

_Not twenty-four hours into this and we’re already on a first name basis?_

“Emma!”

She glanced down at the seating cheat seat on the podium her predecessor had left. Kat had kindly updated it in blue sharpie, not the easiest thing to read. Emma knew most of the names, but it was going to take a bit longer to match faces to all the by-lines in the White House Press Corps.  

“Sidney,” she called, looking in the vague direction implied by that particular blue scribble. _If they’re on first names, so am I._

“The President made a statement today regarding the Milah Shelley court-martial. Is she intending to intercede on behalf of the lieutenant?”

_And, of course, I can’t answer that. How the hell would I know? I’ve been here one day and the only impression I’ve gotten is that this president doesn’t seem all that inclined to tell her senior staff much of anything before she just… does it._

“As the President said, she has full confidence in our Military. One can only assume that includes the military justice system and proper chain of command.”

Two doors down, Regina watched Emma Swan’s first briefing on the viewing screen with rapidly escalating anger. _Proper chain of command?_   Proper _chain of command!? As opposed to what!_

What in God’s name had Kathryn been thinking, hiring this… this completely _inept_   woman to represent her administration?

_“Emma, are you implying the Commander-in-Chief would be out of line to involve herself in the proceedings of her own military?”_

Regina’s nails bit into the palm of her hand as the Press Secretary visibly rolled her eyes.

_“Of course I’m not. Only that—”_

_“Then are you expressing your own support for Lieutenant Shelley’s dishonorable discharge?”_

_“I’m not… I wasn’t—”_

Regina’s nose wrinkled with disappointed scorn even as the anger continued to broil in her gut. Not two questions in, and Ms. Swan had already lost control of the room.

“ _Do you believe she should be discharged?”_

_“I—”_

_“Was the President implying discrimination in Shelley’s situation?”_

The room quieted, and as Emma visibly paused, Regina sucked in a deep breath. _If she so much as…_

_“Yes.”_

The air escaped again in a hiss. It was the right answer, of course. Denying the intent behind listing the names of those men would have been an insult to the intelligence of every single person in that room, and Regina was passingly relieved she hadn’t tried. But could she possibly have _any_   less tact?

_“Discrimination on the part of Shelley’s commanding officer?”_

_“Well, you’d have to ask him that for yourself.”_

If Regina had been holding anything in her hand, she would have thrown it at the screen.

In the wake of Emma’s comment, the furious buzz in the room swelled past the point where individual questions could be heard. She did her best to point at another raised pen. 

It took the woman in question three tries to make herself heard, and Emma was glad for the brief respite. Kat had told her to go in quick and hard, keep her statements short, no backtracking or backing down, and to—“ignore the cliché, but”—be herself, get the gloves off quick and play dirty if she had to, just make sure the press knew she wasn’t the pushover her predecessor had been.

It wasn’t supposed to be an issue like this, though. Not first thing. Not something the campaign had never really discussed, something the President didn’t have any history with, something that _mattered_ to her, but something Emma had no idea how the President expected her to approach. Well, the gloves were off, and Emma had the horrible sensation of standing up at this podium with her bare fists wrapped around the handle of a sledgehammer, swinging away at a thumbtack.

“Both Robert Tucker and Sean Day have come forward expressing how disappointed they are that the President would seek to defame them and the other seven service members she named this morning. Will the President offer an apology—”

“For information you can get from a ten second Google search? Not a chance.” Emma refused to even dignify the rest of that with her attention.

“Emma, any comment on the latest suspicions about her father’s death during the primaries?”

The change of topic threw her for a loop. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

“What do you think of latest information coming to light about the suspicious timing of the President’s father’s death during the campaign?”

“Sounds like the dictionary definition of ‘conspiracy theory,’” Emma managed. Whatever this “latest information” was, she sure hadn’t seen a word of it. _We’re bringing up the primaries, now?_ “Sounds like _old_ news, too.”

“But has the President clarified her presence at her father’s house—”

“—If you’d like to offer your condolences, there’s a memorial page,” Emma cut in as she noticed Kat mouthing _That’s long enough!_ through the window in the door to her right. “And that’s all we have time for today.”

///

“I told you I’d be crap for this, Kat.”

“You’ll get better.”

“I’ll get fired.”

“You did what I asked for,” Kat said, holding the door for Emma to precede her into the Roosevelt Room. “I’ll admit, the timing wasn’t ideal, but did you see the look on Dylan’s face when you told her to google it? These guys aren’t used to poking at someone who pokes back.”

“Should have hired me as Press Cactus, then,” Emma grumbled.

Kat pretended not to hear. “You didn’t oversell it. Honestly, any other day a briefing like that _might_ not get you too many points with the President, but it would send half the bad press the way of Shelley’s commanding officer, the other half after Robert Tucker and Sean Day. You didn’t make the boss look great, but you made the rest of them look worse, and some days, that’s all we can really ask for.”

“Okay, so I got the press off our backs by riling up a few more high ranking military officials. Which is the last thing this administration needs.”  

Kat sighed. Emma was right, and if this happened again a week from now, Kat would probably be ready to detach her head from her shoulders with a butter knife. Still, it _was_ her first day, and this time, it just so happened to not be the end of the world. “This one will blow over. It’s moot, now,” she hedged.  

“Hmm?”

Kat shook her head. “There’s a Navy press conference scheduled for the noon block. We’ve been told that both Shelley and the inferior officer she had the affair with are accepting a general discharge and voluntarily stepping down for half severance pay. Apparently, somebody besides us decided this was bad press.”

Halfway to the room’s center table, Emma froze. “Shelley agreed to that? She’s not fighting it?”

“She’s not. And with no trial…”

“There’s no story,” Emma finished softly. “Or, at least nothing big enough that it will come back to us.”

“That’s what we’re hoping for.”

A door at the other end of the room swung open, and two interns staggered inside, a metal display stand resting precariously in the hands of one and on the shoulder of the other. Behind them, a trickle of what might have been human beings followed, but they looked a lot more like a sea of tri-fold poster boards on fourteen legs and one particularly alarming diorama of a car factory complete with moving parts and that… Was that _smoke?_

Emma’s mouth was hanging open.

“Be nice to the interns,” Kat whispered in her ear.

“This is the President’s _energy strategy team?_ ”

Kat scooted around in front of Emma, staring at her with pleading eyes. “Be _nice._ It’s all part of her  _Youth for the Future_ campaign. These guys are the best and the brightest.”

Across the room, someone cursed loudly, and the distinct sound of metal crashing into a wooden floor rang through the air.

“Best and brightest,” Emma grumbled.  

///

It was well into the evening when Kat dropped Emma off in the office of the Executive Secretary to the President. Somehow, Emma had been picturing someone older having this job, and as she watched the tall, lanky, fresh-out-of-college-faced brunette flipping through the schedule with blood-red fingernails and answering the phone for the third time in the past five minutes, she wished, once again, that someone had gotten her some damn personnel files.

Something that might have been a name plate on the desk read _Ruby,_ but if there was a last name, it was hidden by a bright red thermos. “Ruby?” she asked cautiously.

At her name, the young woman glanced up for the first time since Kat had left Emma here. “Yes?”

“Do you know how much longer it’s going to be?”

Ruby pursed her lips, looking back down at the schedule. “She’s in with the House leadership.”

Emma sighed. “Let me guess. I could have my next birthday before she’s ready to see me.”

With a wry smile, Ruby glanced up again. “Anything to drink?” she offered, eying the newcomer with the same critical stare she applied to everyone who would be spending time with her boss. This one was pretty, though not in quite the usual White House Blond and Beautiful kind of way. She looked… sharp, wearing slacks instead of a skirt and a nondescript button-down that didn’t appear tailored with quite the right cut to have been done for her personally, but that flattered all the same. No heels. When she came in earlier, she hadn’t just walked with purpose, she strode, and she had settled in that chair like she owned it, filling the space without spilling over. Ruby thought she might just like this new face. It was too bad, really, that the Boss didn’t seem to be much of a fan. “Coffee? Tea?”

The door from to the hallway clicked open again, smacking right into the doorstop as a whirlwind of small boy entered the room. “Can I get some cocoa?” he asked, dumping his backpack on the floor and grinning up at Ruby before he noticed the third presence in the room. “Oh. You weren’t asking me, were you?”

Emma felt her lips twitching against her will. The entire nation was in love with this kid, with that too-big smile, all that messy brown hair, and that apologetic little tilt to his chin that Emma had a feeling would all-too-easily develop the addition of his mother’s accusatory raised eyebrows. Intellectually, Emma knew they weren’t related; Regina’s adoption had been front and center all throughout the campaign, but Emma had always been more struck by just how many little similarities the two showed in their rare screen time together than by any of the debates around motherhood and the presidency.

“I could go for cocoa too, actually,” she admitted.

“With cinnamon!” Henry added eagerly.

Ruby shot Emma a questioning glance, and she nodded. “Sure. I’ll have the same.”

When the secretary disappeared for a moment, Emma found herself confronted by an outstretched hand an inch from her eyes. “I’m Henry, Henry Mills,” the kid said with all the blustery confidence of the average politician, but which somehow managed to be much less abrasive on a ten year old. She accepted the handshake.

“Emma Swan.”

“Who are you?” he asked, and Emma sensed immediately that he was trying to place her, put her in context of the infinite people who could be found sitting outside his mom’s office on any given day. It must be pretty wild, having to grow up in a place like this, surrounded by adult strangers and strict security every time he wanted to see his own mother.

“I’m the President’s new Press Secretary.”  

Henry nodded slowly, head tilting even further to the side, and Emma had a strange impression of  _age_ about the kid, like she was talking to a tiny-yet-wise old sage. “You’re _really_   new, then.” In an instant, the evaluating stare was gone, replaced once again by that happy, carefree grin. “No one likes cocoa the way I do. You should stay.”

Emma blinked. “I—”

“Here you go.” Ruby pushed back through the door with two steaming White House mugs in hand, and Emma could practically see Henry’s nose start twitching as the smells of chocolate and spice filled the room.

“Thanks,” Emma managed after a long, slow sip. “This is fantastic.”

Henry elbowed Ruby in the thigh. “She likes my cocoa. Are we keeping her?”

The slightly pained expression on Ruby’s face told Emma just about all she needed to know. “Well…”

“I’m glad we were able to settle this.”

The President’s voice drifted into the room as the door to the Oval Office swung silently open and several gentlemen plodded out. Two of them looked distinctly unhappy, and the rest were downright furious. “We’re not done with this, Madam President. There are any number of—”

“—Oh, I do believe we’re right where we need to be. You can finalize the last details with Mr. Gold.”

Without sparing the spluttering, fidgety men another glance, President Mills turned towards her secretary. “I’ll see Ms. Swan, now.”

Emma frowned, pretty damn sure the President could see her sitting right there and just hadn’t bothered to acknowledge her presence, but she waited for Ruby’s faintly apologetic nod before following President Mills into the office.

She had a few seconds to be reluctantly awed by her surroundings, the spacious, deliberately unsettling demonstration of less-than-subtle wealth and power, and the woman at its head, crossing to stand behind her desk, flanked by two gilded flagpoles and framed by the swath of matching golden curtains tied off on either side of three tall French windows which overlooked the grounds beyond, trees and lawns glimmering and blanketed in snow.

The President had yet to look at her, shuffling a few papers on her desk instead. “Hiring you was a clear miscalculation on the part of my Communications Director, Ms. Swan.”

Emma frowned, the sharp words quickly snapping her out of the Oval Office-induced awe. “Madam President, I—I know this morning’s briefing was—”

“—an unparalleled disaster? Good. Then we can skip the pleasantries. This is about your… credentials, and…” Regina looked up and choked on her words. Emma Swan was standing across the room from her, clearly indignant, waiting for her to finish her argument, but it was all Regina could do to keep from laughing out loud. “And…” She shook her head, biting her lip. “And your history with…” Finally, she couldn’t keep her composure, and a tiny, strangled snort fractured her intended speech.

Emma was staring at the President in abject confusion. Not one second ago, she was pretty sure she was about to lose her job on the second day of having it, but now, the woman behind the desk seemed to be a breath away from having some kind of fit. “Look, ma’am, er—Madam President, I know I have a bit of a crazy track record, but Kathryn hired me for a reason, and I intend to do the best job I—”

 _Laughing_. _She’s_ laughing _at me!_   Emma fell silent, watching as the calm, dismissive woman who had led her into this room choked on seemingly uncontrollable laughter. Anger began working its way through her stomach and up into her chest, quick and hot. Not only was she almost certainly a few minutes away from losing a job she hadn’t even wanted in the first place, a job she’d been doing as a _favor_ to an old friend, but her attempt at defending herself was _funny?!_

Regina was shaking her head, eyes wide, and she held up a hand, turning towards the window for a moment as she struggled to regain her composure. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, staring out at the blur of trees. “You—You have…” She mimed wiping her upper lip until she realized Emma couldn’t see the motion. “Chocolate,” she managed.

Emma’s fingers flew to her face, coming away damp and slightly brown. She groaned out loud. “Oh my god.”

She nearly wiped away the cocoa mustache with her sleeve, but this was a decent blouse, so she looked around frantically for another option.

“Ahhh, tissue?” she managed to ask, holding her hand in front of her mouth. She didn’t see anything at first glance and had a feeling that rubbing her face on any of the presidential upholstery would be a distinct faux pas.

Regina tugged open a drawer and tossed the box towards a visibly embarrassed Emma Swan. “We hide them,” she managed as her new Press Secretary easily caught it. “The tissues. Photo ops with the President and any indication of illness don’t go over too well with the Dow.”

Emma quickly wiped away the offending cocoa and warily approached the desk, passing the tissues back into the President’s outstretched hand. The irritating woman couldn’t seem to stop smiling, one corner of her mouth twitching up even as she put away the tissue box, sat behind the desk, and clasped her hands together. Emma knew her cheeks were bright red, and she still felt like a line of tiny bull’s eyes had been tattooed between her mouth and nose, but the President was silent, and it was now or never to seize the moment. “Don’t fire me yet.”

Another small chuckle emerged before her words. “Believe it or not, Ms. Swan, I didn’t intend to.”

Halfway through taking the seat across from the President, Emma froze, leaving her awkwardly squatting in front of her chair as she said, “Excuse me?”

A short, clear-polished fingernail flipped open the cover of a file on her desk. “At least, not right away. Firing one Press Secretary was bad enough, and you… You no longer worry me.”

Emma’s eyes followed the fingernail as it slid down a line of text and flipped over a photograph tucked into the seam. She finally sat down the rest of the way. Her own face was staring up at her, albeit upside down, and while part of her knew she should probably be considering the ramifications of her life story sitting on the President’s desk, all she could think in that instant was _I knew we had personnel files!_

“You see,” Regina continued, turning another page. “I’ve done a bit of digging into who you are. And it all settles rather nicely around the number seven.”

The blank stare her words garnered made Regina smile. It was one of the little perks of this job she would never stop enjoying, that instant when she had more information about someone then said someone had ever bothered to realize about herself. It was one of the purest, easiest kinds of power.

“Seven?”

“The number of addresses you’ve had in the last decade.”

“Oh.” Emma’s eyebrows drew together, bringing the faint laugh lines on either side of the bridge of her nose into sharper focus, and it took a moment before Regina caught herself staring.  

“You don’t put down roots, Ms. Swan,” she said, a bit more sharply than she’d intended. “You sweep in, make an impressive mess of things, then disappear, off to the next stop in your transient life.” Regina carefully softened her voice. “And that may prove… convenient for me. As long as you’re making the right kind of messes. For the right people.”

Emma eyed her skeptically. “What does that mean?” _If she’s mocking me for the cocoa, I swear to God I’ll…_

The President leaned forward over her desk, brushing a lock of hair off her forehead and propping up her chin with her hand, and Emma’s train of thought veered distinctly off track. It was something about the snow behind her, maybe, or it could have just been the lingering hint of her earlier laughter that still seemed to curl around the President’s lips, but in that moment, Emma could have sworn she was glowing. She was eerily pretty. For a serpent.  

“We may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I—” For the first time since Emma had sat down, she thought she saw a hint of something almost… genuine… in the President’s dark, cautious eyes. “—haven’t actually laughed like that since I first moved in here.”

It took a great deal of willpower for Emma not to immediately double-check her lip for cocoa.

“You’d be a good transition into someone… more professional. From your record, it doesn’t seem like you planned to stay all that long, anyway. We could call it a probationary period. See if we can’t work something out, what with your… hmm… how did Kathryn put it? Your particular talent for letting reporters bludgeon themselves to death with their own questions.”

Despite the unnerving commentary on her life, Kat’s way of phrasing her talents managed to steal a wary smile from Emma’s lips.

“I’m not afraid of being challenged, Ms. Swan,” the President continued. “I just expect a bit more… decorum, than your little show in the hallway yesterday. If it doesn’t go well, I won’t hesitate to let you go, but for now, you’re more use to me here than gone. And who knows,” she added, rising from her seat. Emma scrambled to do the same. “You may even… woo the press with your cocoa-drinking skills.”

This time, Emma couldn’t stop her tongue from nervously flicking out and swiping over her lip. Any number of replies crossed her mind, the worst of which involved getting the cocoa she’d left in the secretary’s office, dumping it over the President’s head, and telling her exactly where she could shove her “probationary period,” but some small part of her remembered that this was a life line she had just been thrown, and she needed to accept it as graciously as she could. “In that case, Madam President—” Emma said, holding out her hand. “—I’m glad to officially meet you.”

Reflexively, Regina accepted the offered hand, staring down at it for a moment in surprise. Handshakes usually said quite a bit about a person, and Regina could almost always tell what someone wanted from her just from the force of the grip, the placement of the thumb, the length of the exchange. In this moment, though, shaking hands with Emma Swan, the contact lingered, but it was entirely her own fault for not letting go. She learned that her new Press Secretary had callused palms, slender fingers, and warm skin… but discovered nothing else.

When Regina let go, Emma retreated back the way she came without another word, leaving the President standing alone in the center of the rug on top of the executive seal, wondering if she could actually still smell cocoa, or if she was only imagining it.

After a few seconds had passed, Regina realized she could hear Henry in the other room. She frowned. Had he been out there when she’d gone to fetch Ms. Swan? Every minute of the meeting before had been like pulling teeth, and it had been all she could do not to have the leadership evicted from the Oval Office by security, so she hadn’t been paying the most attention to her surroundings when she’d practically chased them out the door. Either way, as much as she wanted to see her son, she needed at least ten more minutes alone to wrap things up. If by some miracle no one else demanded her attention before she finished, they might even get to go home a little early.

Still, Henry’s voice drew her in, and she stepped closer. He sounded… happy, chattier than usual. He and Ruby got along well, but this was different. The door hadn’t closed all the way when her confounding Press Secretary had left, and Regina cautiously pulled even with the wash of light from the other room, watching through the crack as Emma Swan smiled at her son. 

“Well, kid, I don’t know about ‘keeping me,’ but I’m not gone yet.”

Henry grinned back at her. “That’s great! Your cocoa’s still warm.”

There was a moment of stillness.

“You know, I think I’ve had enough of that for today.”

Regina could see her shudder, and she couldn’t keep a quiet chuckle from slipping past her lips. Emma stiffened, turning slowly to glance over her shoulder, but by the time she was facing the Oval Office again, Regina had fully closed the door.


	3. Chapter 3

##  _Washington D.C.  
__January 28 th_

///

A tiny, rhythmic clinking sound pulled Regina’s stare up from the pile of reports on her desk. Ruby stood in the doorway, tapping a fingernail against the glass face of the decorative clock beside her.

“That’s not a watch, you know.”

Now that she had the President’s attention, Ruby moved the motion to her bare wrist. _Tap tap tap._

“Not quite the same effect.”

The President had been in such a mood the past week that Ruby hated to say anything. Still, it was her job. “Madam President, you’re very late.”

“Aren’t I always?” Regina muttered, reaching blindly towards the other side of her desk for her phone.

“The Dow doesn’t ‘always’ open five hundred points down, ma’am.”

Regina speared Ruby with her sharpest stare. “I know,” she said, impatience dripping off every letter. “I know. I just… I need five minutes. I’m already late.”

“Five minutes takes you from ‘already late’ into ‘incredibly late.’”

Regina sighed, skimming three pages off of the top of the pile to get down to more pressing documents. “Please, Ruby. Apologize for me again. Five minutes isn’t going to change the global economy.”

“Tell that to Black Tuesday,” Ruby muttered.

“Ruby—”

“—Sorry, ma’am, but I’m not leaving till you’re out of that chair.”

“I’ll give you the state of Idaho.”

Ruby shook her head. “Not a big fan of potatoes, ma’am.”

“I’ll give you your own country. Something gorgeous; right out of a storybook.”

Ruby sighed, though she couldn’t hide a smile. “Don’t think you can do that, ma’am, but I won’t turn it down… after the meeting.”

Regina groaned.

///

Emma hung up the phone, scowling at the row of clocks on the wall. “You didn’t think to warn me that it’s one a.m. in Beijing right now?”

Kat didn’t even look her way, hunched over half a salad and a packet of spreadsheets. “With all due respect, I didn’t think you cared.”

“Well—” Emma started with exaggerated indignity. “—I don’t,” she admitted. “But apparently _some people_ actually go to bed at a human hour.”  

“No one is going to ask about China,” Kat muttered.

Emma figured the comment was supposed to be reassuring, but for once, Emma was more worried about the actual economic repercussions of this hellish day than she was about how she would spin it for the press. “The slowest economic growth in twenty years from an absolute _giant_ ,” Emma grumbled. “And it’s going to get trumped by crude oil prices killing the Dow.”

“If you say ‘killing’ and ‘the Dow’ in the same sentence again I’m going to make you purify the entire West Wing with sage and salt circles.”

“I’m pretty sure one of those is for summoning demons.”

Kathryn finally looked up, a pale, blinking thing wandering out of her cave of numbers for the first time in too many hours. “What?”

Emma shook her head. “Never mind. Do we know if the President and Mr. Gold have decided how we’re going to spin this? Because I don’t think ‘market fluctuation’ is going to go over too well when everyone and their blind grandmother who shouldn’t be driving a car in the first place can see that gas is under two dollars.”

“Forty-seven cents.”

“What?”

Kat waved one of her packets in the air so violently that she knocked the rest of her salad into the trash. Emma wasn’t even sure she noticed. “Michigan. That’s what I’ve got here. In a couple places in Michigan, gas costs forty-seven cents.”

“So while I have to spin that the last administration’s domestic oil push is making our economy go haywire, the Republicans just have to say ‘Hey, guys! Look how cheap your gas is!’”

“Not just that,” Kat said. “They get to brag about single-handedly making the President’s oil sanctions in the Middle East possible. If we manage to get the energy initiative through the House now, oil prices are going to skyrocket again, the market will take another hit, and everyone is going to start demanding we drop the sanctions against Iran and rebuild the wells in Iraq. But if we wait for it to recover on its own…”

“Everyone gets used to forty-seven cent gas. Two more national parks get drilled. But at least we don’t have to start trading in a war zone.” Emma sighed, staring at the fatalistic headlines popping up one after another as stock exchanges across the world began to wake up. “But the energy initiative gets pushed back. Indefinitely. The President isn’t going to like it. It was supposed to be her big break. You guys have been running low on legislative success stories lately.”

Kat nodded, already dreading her meeting with the President. “I’m the one that has to tell her we’re killing her baby. I just need you to come up with a less defeatist reason why we’re doing it.”

Emma bit her lip. “Research?”

“We don’t have the budget for any more research.”

“Analysis?”

“We don’t have the budget for—”

“—Do we have interns, or do we have interns.”

Kat paused, taking a minute to thank the hellish gods of capitalism once again for providing her with young, free labor. “We have interns.”

///

_“As I’m sure everyone here has heard, the Dow opened five hundred points down this morning. Economists are speculating that the Chinese markets may open even lower. I’ll keep you updated as the day goes on. While I can’t say it’s nothing to worry about, we’re expecting the market to make a full, if slow, recovery, since this drop is a direct reaction to the falling price of crude oil. If there’s a drilling field in the middle of your county, you can keep thanking your local Republican congressman for the damage to your air quality, your water supply, and now for the damage to the global economy.”_

Regina tapped a pen against her bottom lip as she watched Emma start the briefing. It was becoming a bit of a morning habit, signing her personal correspondence while her Press Secretary started off the news cycle. In the beginning, she swore it was just to watch for any further embarrassments, but a week in the briefing room had more than proven Emma Swan’s ability to command the full attention of a crowd and to time her punches with a bit more… intent, albeit still without much tact. Now, Regina wasn’t sure how she would justify the habit if anyone asked, but she was the President, and no one would.  

She only had to justify it to herself.

_“On another note, I hope you all have been doing your homework on the energy initiative, because we’re pushing back the timeline a bit for further analysis. Our interns will be putting out weekly progress reports just for you, and I expect to find one-hundred-percent accurate writing on the statistics they pull together.”_

Regina could hear the groans from the crowd, and she sympathized. It wasn’t like she was looking forward to six more months without an improved energy portfolio, either, but at least neither she nor the reporters were one of the interns scraping pointlessly through the original data with a fine-toothed comb because the administration before her had decided to start drilling in their national parks.

_“And if any of those pens waving in the air is going to be a complaint, I’ll assume you’re volunteering to lend the interns a hand. I’ll take questions now.”_

* * *

##  _Washington, D.C.  
__February 4 th_

///

The President and the Economic Council disappeared into National Security meetings for all week, and as the immediate oil crises were taken off her plate, Emma finally had the time to start researching a few things that had been pushed aside in the general melee of current events.

Namely, certain pestery questions surrounding her current employer that never seemed to die away, bits and pieces that Emma had noticed now and then in the general hubbub of the campaign, but that seemed to creep into her Q and A sessions with the press more often than she would have expected for bygone events.  

She’d had a few quick interactions with the woman herself since they declared their strange, probationary truce, but Emma hadn’t managed to learn anything from her that the internet and some surprisingly competent underlings hadn’t already told her. It wasn’t exactly something that would come up naturally, after all, the dead father. The President was notoriously tight-lipped about and protective of her family.

It was reasonable, really. There had to be a lot of pain, there. There was nothing private about a death in the middle of a campaign. His alcoholism had been known even before it killed him, but it pushed to the front and center after his death. Reputable news sources refused to treat the story as anything more than the tragedy it was, worthy of a kind obituary and a few words about the sad timing for the then-Senator’s campaign.

Now, all of a sudden, the story was sparking up again, and Emma seemed to have been dropped right into the heart of a surprisingly large conspiracy. The blogosphere was paying far more attention to the story than anyone had at the time, and Emma didn’t want to be caught unprepared if it came up in the newsroom again. So, here she was, trolling through the archives of some self-accredited “political analyst” on the internet who was probably living in his parents’ basement, but who had managed to get himself way more notice than he was worth by deciding it was Daddy Mills’ death that had won Daughter Mills the presidency.

Gritting her teeth, Emma dove in.

The Mills campaign had been flatlining for nearly a month. They weren’t falling in the polls, but they weren’t rising, either, and in a Democratic field with sixteen contenders, she might as well have been dead in the water. When the press got ahold of her father, Henry Mills Sr. had been an instant liability. He seemed like a kind man, living alone out in the countryside, well provided-for in retirement by his daughter’s political career, but when his drinking habit became common knowledge, he became a common target for the rabid press, and refused to accept interference or protection from her against them. He answered questions too fiercely in his daughter’s defense, incredibly loyal and often… incredibly drunk. He had no discretion, addressing topics the Senator had never discussed, stating opinions she didn’t hold, taking hints of scandal the press threw his way like words straight from the lips of God, and a particular image of him leaning across an outdoor restaurant table to yell at a reporter, “Your great-grandma wasn’t born here, either!” had become the subject of a particularly vicious viral internet meme ripe with racism and tired immigration rhetoric.

No one bothered to make a soundbite out of the reporter demanding to see Mr. Mills’ birth certificate, first.

It was a PR nightmare, one Emma was sure glad she hadn’t had to deal with, but when he died, the campaign had managed to spin the tragedy into an impressive policy initiative. The _Invisible American Illnesses Act_ , or the IAIA, raised awareness, funding, and public support networks around addiction, mental illnesses, diabetes, and other health and lifestyle concerns coming to a new head in the information age. Some of it had always rubbed Emma the wrong way, but so did most of the policies that could actually bludgeon their way through Congress. Things that didn’t piss off a room half full of aging theocrats were bound to piss off at least a segment of the American public, but no one could fault Senator Mills for trying to help others like the father she’d lost. When the policy flew through Congress with nothing but token resistance from a few Republicans, earning a significant budget for her cause in the process, her run had picked up the spike of momentum it needed to pull ahead.

Emma had always brushed the whole thing off as a miscalculation on the part of her opponents. As a Latina woman and a single mother, Regina Mills wasn’t an obvious frontrunner, so sneaking something as big as the IAIA through a Republican House was bound to be a blow to the other candidates leading the Democratic pack, none of whom had particularly impressive congressional success stories behind their names. Still, as far back as Senator Mills had been, it should have been disruptive without being suicidal, knocking the leaders back a bit without actually giving a real contender a better shot.

But instead of ruining things for her party favorites and fading back into obscurity, Senator Mills had picked up the momentum and run with it, thinning the race down to three by the time Emma had a primary to vote in. it was impressive, but it wasn’t unprecedented.

Now, almost two years later, someone had decided it was _too_ impressive. The timing of his death was too convenient, the biggest liability of the Mills campaign taken out of the picture just before the New Hampshire primary… and now, someone was gathering evidence.  

Emma wanted to ignore it. Really, she did, but it was getting too much traction already. It was now or never to nip it in the bud, before anyone who actually _mattered_ started writing about it.

Closing out of her fifteen internet tabs, Emma ran a finger down the President’s cramped schedule. Ever since the economy took its inconvenient little nosedive, there hadn’t been a minute of her time unaccounted for. The only chance of even seeing the President face-to-face was in transit. Emma closed her eyes, wandering the West Wing hallways in her mind and picking out the best chance she had at an interception. A quick glance at clock—the one that actually displayed Eastern Standard Time, amazingly enough—and she dashed out the door, turning two corners before she was caught up in the flow of the usual entourage surrounding the President every minute she wasn’t shut off behind a closed door.

“I need ten minutes with you before I go into the briefing tomorrow.”

“It’s not going to happen, Ms. Swan,” Regina muttered, accepting a packet of papers from the aide on her other side. “Run it by Gold; we can discuss it tomorrow. Or Thursday.”

Ten more steps saw Regina vanishing into the Oval, and Emma was shut out, left behind in Ruby’s office.

The rest of the staffers began drifting away, set free from the magnetic field that seemed to surround the President, but Emma lingered, pacing in front of the secretary’s desk.  

“I really, really need ten minutes with her, Ruby. _Before_ tomorrow,” Emma added when she saw Ruby start to flip over the schedule.

Before she could offer more than an apologetic look, the door to the Oval Office slammed open, and someone very old and very angry stormed out in a cloud of raised voices. Emma thought she probably would have recognized him as someone very important, too, but his face was as red as his tie, so as it was, it was all she could do to step out of the way as a shiny bald mystery head passed an inch below her nose and disappeared into the Mural Room with a lurching stride of pure indignation.

“Oh, look,” Ruby muttered, glancing over at where the President now stood, scowling in the doorway. “Ten minutes just opened up.”

Regina glanced slowly between them, trying to calm herself. It was the end of a brutal week for national security, as the volatile oil market had set tensions in the Middle East at an all-time high, and she had _finally_ gotten a hold of her own Minister of Foreign Affairs, only for him to dismiss her concerns and go on a tirade about how sacrosanct his vacation time was. Emma was still staring at the place where the small, infuriating man had been, and Regina found herself breathing a bit more easily when the concern and hint of amusement in Emma’s eyes turned her way.

“Actually,” she offered. “I now have the rest of the evening. That was supposed to be a full foreign crisis session, but it would _seem_ the NSC has everything under control. Why don’t you come—” Regina paused. She already had the door to the Oval opening behind her, but she hesitated, then pulled it the other way until it clicked shut. She didn’t want to go back in there. She’d spent too much time behind that desk and standing at the corner of the table in the Situation Room today. If she was going to have a meeting with someone whose political impression of her she couldn’t care less about, they weren’t going to do it in there. “—with me. Let’s take this across the hall.”

“Across the hall,” Emma soon learned, actually meant the East Wing. The halls were surprisingly quiet as she walked beside the President; no one was expecting Regina to be out of the Oval Office again that night, so no one had prepared an ambush of paperwork or policy proposal to sell from the sidelines. 

“This space is usually reserved for the First Lady,” Regina murmured, pushing open a door into a small, airy room. The high ceiling was actually a bit unnerving for Emma, used to the almost claustrophobically short office spaces demanded by the single-story West Wing. The East Wing had a second floor, though, and this small office-study-lounge space was on a corner, so there was nothing above their heads but the unusually lofty, sloping ceiling and a single dangling houseplant. There was a desk in one corner, but it was miraculously empty of paperwork, and the bookshelves on either side were a riot of color suggesting recreational reading, fiction, even, rather than the legal texts and priceless first editions strategically placed for the aesthetic of wealthy professionalism that filled the average White House office or the paper-strewn nightmare shelves of the understaff. “They wanted to make this another legal office, but I claimed it the minute I saw it.”

Emma ran her fingers across the back of the plush green couch that filled most of the floor as she crossed to the desk and glanced at the single picture frame it held, immediately recognizing a photograph of a younger Henry, lap buried by a giant picture book, grinning happily up towards the camera, but not directly at it, as though the photographer had managed to capture the genuine joy of his greeting. “I can see the appeal, ma’am,” Emma offered, glancing back towards the middle of the room. “If I were you, I’d want a space of my own, too.”

Regina actually found it very strange, in the past weeks, when Emma Swan addressed her like the rest of her staff. The first argument in the hallway had given her a somewhat unrealistic expectation that her Press Secretary was going to be at her throat every time they were in the same room, but once Regina had called for civility, she had gotten… a very traditional interpretation of it. “In here, we can dispense with some… formalities,” Regina offered, not a little curious how Ms. Swan would react. “Why did you want to see me?”

Emma glanced back down at the picture. “You’ve got a great kid,” she said, considering her words. “You named him after your father?”

Emma wasn’t completely sure, but she thought she saw the President stiffen. “I did.”

“You and your father were close?” Emma pressed.

“What is this about, Ms. Swan?”

Whatever strange calm had followed them into this room had fled.

“Look, I’m sorry to even ask…” Emma started, crossing the floor to rest her hands on the back of the couch again. “What can you tell me, about the night your father died? I’m guessing you want to say ‘nothing,’ and I respect that, but I really do need to know.”

The President frowned. “My father was an alcoholic. At his age, drinking has consequences.”

“And where were you, that day?”

“Excuse me?”

“I think you heard me.”

 _So much for civility._ The thought flickered quickly through Regina’s mind as she paced away from the door. “Why are you asking me that?”

Emma was surprised. Regina’s question was terse, tense. She had expected something more polished, some quick, easy explanation, but it finally occurred to her that the President may not have ever been personally subjected to these questions. “I’m not,” she said. “But the press is, and just because it hasn’t gotten to you, yet, doesn’t mean it won’t.”

“My father’s death is of no concern to the Press Corps,” Regina said, stepping closer to Emma from the other side of the couch. “And it is your job to ensure that they understand that.”

Emma shook her head. “I’m trying, believe me, but they’re concerned, and if this is the kind of response they’re going to get from you when they ask, then frankly, so am I.”

“My father died, drunk and alone, almost two years ago. The story ends there.”

“It doesn’t, though,” Emma pressed, pulling open the folder she had tucked under her arm. “Look.” She stepped flush with the couch, thighs pressing into the upholstery, and held out the photograph towards the President’s still form. “That’s you. At your father’s house. And that date, that timestamp, is remarkably close to the time the coroner’s report said that his heart stopped.”

“Where did you get this?” Regina held the blurry photograph in hands she only just kept from shaking as she stared down at her own face, washed pale and colorless by the bad image quality and the bright, rural-Maine moon. “ _Where did this come from?”_

“There’re plenty more, too,” Emma said, offering the entire folder for Regina’s perusal. “There were press coming and going on your father’s land nearly every day of the campaign. These pictures were floating around in some dead corner of the internet, right up until a blogger did enough digging to find them. And put a few things together.”

Regina tried to keep her face as expressionless as possible as she slowly closed the folder and set it down on the couch. “What exactly are you insinuating, Ms. Swan?”

“I’m not insinuating anything,” Emma insisted, holding up her palms. “I’m just telling you what _other people_ are insinuating. And you being there, that night, insinuates some things all on its own.”

“And if I say, yes, I was there that night?” Regina offered. She could feel two fingers of her right hand kneading at the seam running down the side of her skirt, but couldn’t bring herself to stop the nervous gesture. “That we had a nice dinner, chatted about the campaign, and I went home, never imagining he’d finish off two bottles of wine alone and never wake up again?”

At the cold, quick words, Emma winced. “Then why did you never mention it to anyone? Can’t you see why this looks bad? You should have given a statement to the police at the very least, been accountable for your whereabouts after you left… You were _there_ , the night a man died, and you never even told the examiner that he didn’t die during dinner time? Did you really think no one would ask me—”

“—My family is not up for discussion in your briefings!”

Emma finally realized that she was watching the woman across from her coming unraveled with each word out of her mouth, and it didn’t bode well for the future.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t your family being discussed in my briefings. It’s you.”

Emma almost jumped when Regina’s furious step forward made the couch jolt back against her legs. “This is my _father_ we’re talking about!” The step had brought her so close to the front side of the sofa that her knees pressed visibly into the seat cushions. Emma was tempted to step back, put a bit more than a single couch-width’s worth of distance between herself and the suddenly furious President, but the intensity of Regina’s stare held her locked in place. “My father, the man who raised me, the man I hoped would be standing beside me when I took my oath of office, the man who _died_ in the middle of the most grueling year of my life, and you’re wondering why I didn’t answer questions no one asked?”

Regina knew she was getting unnecessarily close to the other woman, but there was something about Emma Swan that just demanded anger, and demanded it right up in her face. “I was _grieving_ ,” Regina spat. “So whatever this conspiracy is that you’ve uncovered, whatever useless allegations some child is making about me on the internet, if it involves my father’s death, then yes, it’s about my family, and it doesn’t belong in the press room.” She shook her head. “Then again, what would you know about family, anyway,” she scoffed, finally turning away.

“Excuse me?” Emma spluttered. The outburst of emotion from the President had been startling enough before she turned it on Emma, but now, it was personal. “I don’t know about _family_? What the hell are you imply—”

Regina silenced her with dismissive huff. “Oh, I don’t imply, Ms. Swan. I know your history, so forgive me if I’m not particularly inclined to allow you to decide what does or does not constitute a family affair.”

“Well forgive the lowly foster child if she doesn’t get to decide what people write about you on the internet!” Emma fired back, her anger finally breaking through what little professionalism remained.

“It is your _job_ to shut these things down, not bring them to me on a night when I have a slipping economy, an oil war, and a major policy setback to deal with!”

“I can’t do my job if you won’t answer my questions! Would you rather get it from me, now, or from a _Clickfeed_ reporter with a camera in your face?”

“I’d rather get a good night’s sleep!” Regina snapped. “And _some_ level of basic competence from my senior staff. But apparently either of those is too much to ask for.”

“Apparently you—”

Emma’s half-formed reply was cut short when the door swung open without warning.

Ruby heard the argument from halfway down the hall, and it had taken her all of ten seconds to decide she had better intervene. She came baring gifts, a plate of the cinnamon chip scones she had seen Emma eyeing on the staff tables all day balanced on top of two mugs of cocoa. Without a word, she walked directly up to the couch, placing herself between the squabbling women, handing a mug to each, and placed the tray of scones in Emma’s unsuspecting other hand.

Before either woman could offer another word, Ruby made a quick departure, resisting the temptation to press her ear against the door once she’d closed it behind her.

They stood in silence for a good minute. Emma’s arm started to droop from the awkward angle and the surprisingly dense pile of scones, so let herself make a quick circuit of the couch and slump down into its soft, welcoming embrace, the tray settling nicely in her lap. She was probably breaking ten rules of presidential protocol in the process, but couldn’t really bring herself to care.

Regina stared, wondering how long it had been since someone besides her son had sat before she did. Slowly, Regina sank down beside her. “Here,” she muttered, pulling a low-sitting table towards them from a few feet away. She shoved aside a pile of books and paperwork to clear most of its surface.

The President made the motion of taking off her heels so slow, it seemed reverent, a strange and private ritual not many were offered a chance to witness. Emma almost sighed, just watching her kick her feet up onto the spot she’d cleared and melt back into the cushions with a tiny sound of pure relief, eyes closed, nostrils flaring as she breathed in the steam from her mug.  

“Everything seems more manageable with your feet up, Ms. Swan.”

Emma eyed the table with all the skepticism she could muster. “You sure?”

Regina chuckled warily. “I’m sure if it belonged to George Washington, he put it through worse.” She reached down, a bit surprised by her own actions when she decided to poke Emma’s calf with two fingers. “Up.”

Emma shoved the plate of cinnamon scones at Regina. She sighed and propped her feet on the coffee table. From here, she could actually see that the strange, warm light in the room came from a fake fireplace that had been mostly hidden by the table. Now, sitting on the lounge, the flickering light was a bit… menacing, but she could tell it wasn’t the fire lending the dark shadows to the space beneath the President’s eyes. It had been a beast of a day, a hell of a week, and Emma hadn’t exactly made things any easier for her. If she was this beat from a day with the press, Regina must be drained to the bone. “Tired?” she asked, even though her brain had long since provided the answer.

Regina looked at her like she’d lost her mind, but answered the rhetorical question all the same. “Yes, Ms. Swan. Exhausted.” She stared down at the glass of cocoa nestled between her palms with mild disinterest. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy cocoa, though before Henry entered her life, she hadn’t touched it since childhood, but at the moment, the warmth of the mug in her hands was much more appealing than the sugary beverage. It was late, but it was still incredibly nice that Ruby had thought to bring it, even if the obvious meddling in her conversation was less so.

Effective, though.

“I’m sorry,” Regina said, voice soft. “I shouldn’t have said that. About your family, I—The foster care system… That was…” The words tasted bitter in her mouth. “…incredibly insensitive of me. It’s just…” She paused, finally taking a long, slow sip of cocoa as she tried to make up her mind. There was an unexpected temptation to… tell the truth.

“I was there, that night. And not just for dinner,” she began, keeping her voice measured, smooth. “He was drinking, all the time I was with him. A beer, a glass of wine, another, and another, and we were fighting. Of course. I wanted him to let me hire a bodyguard to keep the press away. He wanted me to take care of myself, not to worry about him, but I—I snapped. I said that, as long as he was talking to the press, he was the biggest problem in my whole campaign.”  

She took another sip, wishing the heat would stay inside her, spread through her bones, chase away a chill that had lingered for too many years. “He just looked… so sad, so disappointed, and I couldn’t stand it. It wasn’t supposed to be about him. This was supposed to be my moment, my triumph, and he just couldn’t leave well enough alone. I couldn’t look at him; I left the room. By the time I came back, he had finished another bottle and passed out on the couch. Losing consciousness, drunk, at his age, I—I knew I should have stayed with him, or called an ambulance, but instead I just… I just sat there, watching him struggle to breathe, one arm hanging off the side of the couch, and after a few minutes…” Regina stared at her feet on the table. “I walked out the door.”

Emma seemed to have been shocked into silence.

“Legally, did I kill him? No. But if anyone found out… that wouldn’t matter. I could have intervened. But the _relief._ ” The word was a sigh. “I was grieving. I was. But knowing I had just removed another obstacle to this, to where I am now, it was just…”

Emma was caught by the vulnerability etched into the shadows of the President’s face even as a sick feeling rumbled through her gut. Regina Mills had just essentially confessed to killing her father, and Emma was a bit appalled with herself for wanting nothing more, in that moment, than to offer her forgiveness.

Tentatively, she set a hand down on the President’s knee, patting the coarse, thick fabric of her skirt just once, then pulling slowly away. “We all make bad calls sometimes,” she said, voice hoarse.

“But not everyone’s bad calls end up as patricide.”

The mug in her hands was visibly shaking, and Emma wondered if anyone else had ever heard this particular confession.

“Some do. Okay, maybe not many, but death…” Emma mirrored the President, taking a quick sip of hot cocoa, gathering words together in her mind. “When I was in the service, I had to stop thinking about how many of my choices ended up with someone dead.”

“That’s different,” Regina said, impatient, already regretting the impulsive honesty. “That’s your _job_. You were at war, not sitting around knowing you could have saved someone, and had chosen to kill instead.”

“Sure I was. Joining up, you’re signing on to kill. Not joining, on the other hand, you’re signing up to let other people die for you. And taking the oath of office… you’re signing up to decide when a hell of a lot of people live and die. You just… Got started a little early.” Emma tried not to shiver at her own words. She had a feeling it would all hit her at three in the morning, a much-needed punch in the gut to remind her that her President had practically watched her own father die in front of her eyes, but for now, the immediate reflex was to reassure her that everything was going to be alright.

“Try telling that to the press.”

Emma offered the most comforting smile she could muster. “They may not ask again. I’ve dodged it so far, and if it looks like we’re not worried, they may assume there’s nothing to hide.”

“If it does come up, though. I—”

“—You had dinner with your dad that night. It’s a difficult memory. No one ever asked, and you, reasonably, didn’t want the last words you shared with him turned into a soundbite.”

“I can’t ask you to lie.”

“I’m not. Every word of that is true.”

Regina turned the phrases over in her mind and realized her Press Secretary was right. “And if it still doesn’t go away?”

Emma shrugged. “That’s what I’m here for. I shut it down. I remind them, again, that they can leave their condolences, and their nosy questions, on the memorial page. Maybe the ghost of Henry Mills Sr. will come back from the grave to enlighten them.”

It was a risk, trying to make light of what she had learned, but when a small smile flitted across Regina’s lips, Emma knew it had been a worthwhile one.

Silence fell, and Emma watched the fire, thinking over the insanity of a world where Regina Mills might not have been president if she had saved her own father’s life.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Emma said softly. “Day in, day out. I’ve barely started, and seeing what you have to live with… How do you survive six more years after this one?”

Regina smiled. “Well, that optimism helps.”

Emma picked up a scone, then another, setting both on her lap as she picked up the cocoa again. Who gave a damn about crumbs when some brilliant soul had invented dry cleaning? She held out the plate to the President, but she shook her head, and Emma dipped the beautiful hunk of cinnamon and carbs right into her mug. “Not optimism,” she mumbled, trying to chew quickly. “Stats. Everyone agrees. It would take a miracle for the Republicans to pull out a challenger for an incumbent. Short of divine intervention, they’re not going to get themselves together, and you’re not going to make a big enough mistake to lose it. You’ve got six years, if you want them.”

“I want them,” Regina whispered. “But I want it all, Emma.”

Emma blinked, quickly gulping down another mouthful of cocoa to hide her surprise. That may well be the first time she’d heard the President use her first name.

“Can’t I have it all? The White House, motherhood, a good night’s sleep… sanity?”

Emma pretended to think it over. “Well, you’ve got the ‘mom’ thing down, we’re sitting in the White House, and if you kick me out soon, you could probably be asleep before one. Sanity, though… that’s just greedy.”

Regina smiled weakly. “I’m starting to see why Kat hired you. I’m not sure it has anything to do with the press.”

Emma frowned through a mouthful of scone. “Hmm?”

“You’re good for that. Sanity.”

Emma made a muffled noise of surprise, hurrying to swallow. “I just yelled at you until you confessed to negligent manslaughter.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

Emma took a moment to look at the President, to really look at her, as she took another sip of her cocoa. Why _was_ she still here? Her time in the capital so far had been… fast. She had come in ready to work for someone she didn’t really like, ready to argue, to fight, to try and make at least one meaningful change in this weak, war-hungry White House. And she had, twice now, gone head-to-head with President Mills. But in the eerie stillness after each fight, she was forced to examine how little impact both she, and the President had on most of these things. Working with a state-level campaign, little issues felt so big, it always felt like _something_ was getting done. Here, nothing was a little issue, not the oil crisis, not the President’s final visit to her father, not the resignation of Milah Shelley, but there was nothing she could _do_. She couldn’t go pay a personal visit to a retired naval officer and ask why she’d given up on her career, couldn’t offer a sympathetic ear, the understanding of what it meant to fall into bed with another woman under the watchful, judging stare of the entire American military. And she couldn’t go back in time two years and tell a tired, campaign-wary Regina Mills to call a fucking ambulance; it was all she could do hope the tide of the questions thrown at her in the briefing room would turn her way, hope she’d drowned herself in the right information, and hope certain things stayed behind closed doors, where they belonged.

She didn’t like it, the reality that Kat had probably been right about a lot of things, and that one of those was… she could like this woman. President Mills was… dark, darker than some, but not as dark as it got, in Washington, and she was… refreshingly honest about it, at the very least. “Yeah,” Emma finally muttered. “I’m still here. Not sure what that says about my sanity, though.”

To Emma’s surprise, Regina laughed.

When really, really looking at her, like she had been doing for the past probably-too-long bit of time, it was hard for Emma to ignore that President Mills was a beautiful, beautiful woman.

Well, damn.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Yes?” Regina called. She turned towards the interruption, letting her feet fall onto the floor in exasperation.

A member of the First Family’s Secret Service team stepped halfway into the room. “Good evening, ma’am. Just wanted to let you know that Mongoose has gone in for the night.”

“Thank you,” Regina said, and Emma could hear the sudden weariness in those two words without even looking up from her second scone.

“Mongoose?” she asked as soon as the door had swung shut again. “Is that Henry?”

Regina nodded. “I let him pick our code names,” she admitted.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve actually heard yours, yet.”

“Cobra,” Regina said quietly. “He was… Last year was rough for both of us. The transition… he was in a dark place. He wanted mine to be ‘Evil Queen,’ actually. Security nixed it, so he named me after a snake instead. I was suitably insulted, but it could be worse.”

Emma finally made the connection. “Mongoose. Furry little things that fight cobras, right?”

A small, indulgent smile flickered across Regina’s lips. “Precisely.” Things were better, now. Not perfect, but Henry had settled in at the D.C. school, made friends. Now, the code names were something they could laugh about, on the better days, and on the tougher ones, they were a good reminder to talk, not to let herself go any longer than she had to without seeing her son, not to let him go to sleep angry before she had a chance to apologize.

“Wait,” Emma said, pulling Regina out of her introspective mood. “I don’t have one, do I?”

The President smirked. “You might want to ask Kathryn. The White House Communications Agency assigns them to most of the senior staff, and I don’t think they give everyone the luxury of discussing it first.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “Oh no.”

* * *

##  _Washington D.C.  
__February_ 5th

///

“You named me _Umbrella Stand?!”_


	4. Chapter 4

##  _Washington, D.C.  
February 5th_

///

“It’s official. I’m losing it.”

“Hmm?”

“I am sitting at the bottom of the rabbit hole.”

Kathryn looked up, glaring at Emma over the edge of her monitor. She hadn’t even bothered to knock when she barged into Kat’s office for the second time in this morning. “What happened?” she asked, injecting as much _I-don’t-care_ into the question as she could manage without actually saying “Not that I care.”

Emma didn’t seem to notice her disinterest. She sat in the chair across from Kat’s desk. “Six reporters just asked me about an endangered sloth from Nicaragua stuck at the border, I’ve now heard not just one, but _two_ of the no-neck guys with guns whisper ‘Umbrella Stand’ into a headpiece when I walked by, and last night, your boss confessed to murder and I wanted to kiss her.”

Kat froze, annoyance forgotten. “Did you?”

“What?”

“Kiss her?”

“What? No, I—”

The rest Emma’s words finally registered, and Kathryn pushed back so violently the legs of her chair screeched against the floor in protest. “Wait, _murder?_ ”

Emma groaned, letting her forehead drop onto the pile of papers at the edge of Kat’s desk. “Well, not quite.”

“Oh.” Kathryn slowly pulled herself forward again, infinitely relieved. “She told you about her father.”

Emma’s head jerked upright again. “You _knew?”_

“Emma, Regina Mills has been my friend almost as long as you and I.”

Kathryn wasn’t sure she’d ever seen someone look quite so taken aback.

“How do you think I ended up as Communications Director? The President and I have been working towards this together for _years._ ”

“I had no idea,” Emma admitted. “You never mentioned her, not until she was already your boss.”

Kathryn snorted. “We never talked, Emma. You sent me dollar store Christmas cards that said ‘Hey, Kat!’ and we swapped a few emails. When I showed up at your apartment, I didn’t even know for sure if you’d let me in.”

Emma rubbed at her wrist and looked away. “It wasn’t personal, Kat, I swear. I… I’m no good at keeping people in my life.”

“I know. I never pushed.”

“True.” Emma’s eyes slowly found her again. “But, I mean, you knew? What, is there actually some big conspiracy hiding this after all? Did you just up and decide things would go better with Henry Mills out of the picture? For good?”

“Is that what she told you?”

“Well, no. She said… I mean, she made it sound… not like an accident, not really, but not premeditated, either.”

“Then she told you exactly what she told me, and Emma, I need you to believe her.” Kathryn searched Emma’s eyes. “Regina didn’t have the easiest relationship with her father. What she did, that night… It had nothing to do with the campaign.”

“That’s not what she told me, Kat.”

“I know. She won’t talk about it. And I don’t mean that in a ‘you should push her some time,’ kind of way, either. Her mother… I knew her mother. She…” Kathryn sighed, unsure how much to say.  _Abusive_ hardly scratched the surface. Regina might never have run for office if not for Cora Mills, and certainly would never have gone at it so quickly, pushed herself so hard, made so many ethically questionable choices. And Henry Sr. had never stepped in, never stood up for her, never offered anything more than what affection he could muster as he drank himself towards an early grave. The apathy than ran underneath the love between Regina and her father… Kathryn had seen it, and she knew that, even so long after her death, it was the shadow of Cora Mills still hanging heavy between them. “…did a lot of damage, to Regina, and to her relationship with her father. Honestly, with what I know about her childhood… I’d have been tempted to kill them both years ago.”

Emma considered Kat’s words. “Okay. Thanks. For telling me that, I… I actually feel a little better about it, knowing you know. I just… I don’t know.” She sighed. “She looked scared, Kat, and I…”

Kathryn found the smile creeping back onto her face. “You what?”

Emma glowered. “I wanted to help her, alright? I couldn’t even make myself care about the whole ‘dead dad’ thing until I woke up this morning. Not when she was sitting next to me, telling me that, I just…”

“You wanted to kiss it better?” Kathryn teased.

Emma groaned. “Kat. You know how I am with brunettes. You didn’t tell me she was so… She’s so… In person…”

Kathryn was openly grinning, now. Oh, yes. She knew perfectly well Emma had a thing for brunettes.

“But she’s so straight!”

Kat raised an eyebrow.

Emma’s eyes widened. “She _is_ straight, right?”

Kat pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, still smiling.

“Oh my god.”

At the dawning realization on Emma’s face, Kat finally laughed. “Oh, this is priceless.”

“The rumors… I mean, I always figured it was just the ‘single’ thing that made it a story, but… And, I mean… she took a guy to the Kennedy Center Honors last year, so I just assumed…”

Emma had never seen her friend with such a shit-eating grin. “Right. You assumed.”

Finally, the last realization struck. “You’re trying to set me up! Jesus, Kat. You’re trying to set me up with the President!? You got me a job just to—”

“—Hey, now! I got you a job I knew you’d be good at. If it just so happened I’ve been trying to drag my bisexual boss out of the closet for almost ten years, too, well…”

Emma groaned. “This is the worst idea you’ve ever had, Kat, and that’s saying a hell of a lot considering you talked me into working here _and_ I just found out you named me ‘Umbrella Stand.’ She’s the President. She’s an asshole. And she still pretty much hates my guts.”  

Kathryn sobered in an instant. “That’s not true, Emma. She never would have told you what she did last night if she didn’t trust you.”

“You’re paying me to be trustworthy. ’Trust’ and ‘like’ are two different things.”

“Then listen to me when I tell you that, for her? Trust comes a lot harder. And if you managed that in less than a month, ‘liking’ is going to be a piece of cake.”

///

“My next briefing is in twenty-seven minutes. Someone tell me what the deal is with this sloth.”

Emma wasn’t exactly sure who’s office they had ended up in; there was a Star Trek poster on the wall, no one was sitting at the desk, and when the Chief of Staff, Press Secretary, Communications Director, and her Deputy had all entered one after the other, the room’s initial two occupants had fled.

Kathryn offered the run down. “As I’m sure you’ve all heard by now, the Nicaraguan Ambassador is currently caught up in Customs at the US-Mexico border, along with a small assortment of personal staff, two animal handlers, and a critically endangered pygmy three-toed sloth.”

“Named Pongo,” August Booth cut in.

“Named Pongo,” Kathryn echoed her Deputy through gritted teeth.

“And every news organization in the state of Texas,” Emma muttered.

Kat ignored the second interruption. “ _Pongo_ is supposed to be a gift for the National Zoo. President Murillo was sworn into office less than two weeks ago, and _claims_ he was given permission to send his ambassador, sloth and all, for a talk on continued assistance in the territory dispute with Colombia. Apparently, no one informed Customs.”

“So inform Customs,” offered Booth with a shrug. “We stop holding up border traffic, we get an endangered sloth, the President meets with the ambassador to a Central American country we’ve got an alright relationship with. No harm, no foul.”

Mr. Gold shook his head. “No one informed Customs because no such permission was given, not from within this office. It would seem Ambassador Nieto has been in contact with a number of state governors, planning some sort of press tour with the sloth through the southern states on his way to the capitol. This is a publicity stunt for the new President.”

August shrugged again. “So? We get some of our animal people down there, make sure the sloth is alright, doesn’t have any diseases, and let him have his publicity stunt.”

“There’s another problem.” Kat crossed to a large map hanging on one wall, flipping aside pages like a calendar until she reached an image of Central America, and Emma wondered if that map was the reason they were in this office to begin with. “This—” She tapped the map. “—is Nicaragua. Which I’d hope you all know, but to be honest, I haven’t looked at a map of Central America since eighth grade geography.” She dragged her finger along the map until it was lurking over a speck of land in the middle of the ocean. “And this, is the Isla Escudo de Veraguas. Which just so happens to be the _only_ place in the world with a population of pygmy three-toed sloths.”

Emma squinted. “That’s not in Nicaragua, is it.”

“Not even close.”

Mr. Gold nodded. “Panama called. They want their sloth back.”

Emma groaned. “Oh, come on.”

“And while we do have a cordial relationship with Nicaragua…” Gold continued. “…we have a much closer relationship with Panama.”

“But we also have _no_ relationship with President Murillo yet. We can’t start off on the wrong foot, or we could have the territory dispute with Columbia spreading towards Costa Rica again. The President did a lot of work on the San Juan River Agreement with Murillo’s predecessor. We can’t just send the Ambassador home.”

Gold nodded along with Kathryn’s words. “I agree.”

Emma shook her head. “Okay, so we bring in the Ambassador, let him do a quick photo grab with a couple governors, then send the sloth home.”

“The zoo wants the sloth,” Booth cut in. “I’ve been on the phone with Director Kelly twice this morning. We’ve never been this close to getting one.”  

“Well, you’re going to have to disappoint,” Emma offered, glancing at her phone. “Because I’m on in five minutes, and there’s no way we’re keeping that sloth.”

“Actually, we are.”

Emma spun around. “I just said—” The objection died on her lips when her brain caught up to her ears and she realized just who was standing in the doorway.

“I’ve just okay-ed it with Customs,” Regina continued. “Which the four of you would know, if you hadn’t made yourselves so impossible to find. And I don’t think you’re going to try to pull rank on me, Ms. Swan.” She was fully aware of how much her words would annoy the Press Secretary, and she wasn’t above admitting to herself that she was enjoying it. “At the rate Panama is destroying their habitat, those sloths could be extinct in the next five years. We’re not just taking the gift; the three of you are going to get on phone lines and talk down the Panama government, and Ms. Swan is going to get on the news to thank Panama for _graciously_ donating a second sloth.”

“Panama will never—” Emma began, but stopped when she saw the general climate of the room.

Mr. Gold was frowning, but Kathryn was slowly nodding her assent. “We’re thrilled, of course, with such a _generous_ gesture of friendship between our two nations, and we’d welcome their delegation at the White House with the new sloth. Panama won’t look like Nicaragua took advantage of them, that way, and they won’t be able to turn it down without losing an important opportunity for diplomacy.”

“We’re still legitimizing Nicaragua poaching endangered species.” Emma flashed the President a look that was part irritation, part trepidation. “You’re going to insist on this, aren’t you?”

Regina arched an eyebrow. “I shouldn’t have to insist, Ms. Swan. I should only need to ask.”

She hid her smile. She had been in a remarkably good mood all morning and had a feeling it had far too much to do with the woman across from her. She could practically see the bones in Emma’s jaw grinding against each other through clenching muscle and tightening skin. Good to know that, even after shared cocoa and shared secrets, she could still easily antagonize her. That was important. It wouldn’t do to get attached. Ms. Swan’s entire purpose here was to act as a human shield against the press, and Regina had been up for quite a while last night, considering how quickly it had become difficult to willingly cut her loose once her services were no longer required.

“In that case,” Emma said, voice tight. “I’ll go inform the press to expect our wonderful new Diplomacy Sloth to be crossing the border soon.”

“You do that, Ms. Swan.”

///

“Panama is even angrier, now.”

“And yet, in two weeks, the National Zoo will have its very first pygmy three-toed sloth,” Regina murmured, surprised that Ms. Swan had fallen into step with her as she left the building that afternoon. She was taking the rest of the day off to spend time with Henry, and she had almost made it through the doors unopposed.

“They really wanted that sloth back.”

“Don’t make me say it, Ms. Swan.”

“Hmm?”

“We can’t always get what we want.”

She had a smug little smile on her face, and, for the first time, Emma wondered what she was getting out of this. “You seem to get what _you_ want pretty damn often.”

“One of the perks of the job.”

“Why did you want this sloth so much?”

“If you haven’t figured it out, I’m not sure I should tell you,” Regina said, keeping pace with her Press Secretary as she led the way out into the city, hardly realizing they were no longer headed towards the Residence.  

“Humor me,” Emma said through gritted teeth. “I’m new.”

The President’s little smile spread just a bit. “Weston Kelly. Director of the Smithsonian National Zoo, brother of Adrienne Kelly, senior Republican Congresswoman on the House and Senate Renewable Energy and Energy Efficiency Caucus.”

Emma’s step faltered. “You’re stacking up Republican votes for the energy initiative. Why? We pushed it back. Indefinitely.”

Regina shook her head. “We pushed it back because of the oil crisis. Adrienne Kelly will propose an amendment to postpone only the domestic oil restrictions for six to twelve months, to be implemented incrementally in the next year. It’s a slower timeline than we wanted, but if I can get the rest of it before the midterms, I—”

Regina felt her own tirade cut short as she stared skeptically at the hideous yellow bug parked against the curb; it was a few missing psychedelic flowers away from being at home in the era of free love, and from the dents and scrapes and general state of disrepair, Regina wasn’t sure the mileage wouldn’t reveal and age to match its hippie origins. “You drive that?”

“I do.”

_That car probably voted for Hanks._ “You know, part of the energy initiative I’m _trying_ to pass is an incentive to trade in older vehicles for low-emissions models, all manufactured in countries whose labor laws—”

“—live up to the Fair Labor Standards Act. I know. It’s my job to know.” She pulled open the door and slid inside. “Also, your interns have very enthusiastically made _absolutely sure_ I know.”

Watching Emma settle behind the wheel, Regina did her best to quell the strange mix of envy and desire coiling up in her gut. It had been a long time since she had gotten to drive herself anywhere, so long that even that appalling excuse for a vehicle was starting to look good, and that fact had never irked her quite as much as it did right now, Secret Service agents lurking in the background as her tall, cocky Press Secretary turned the key in the ignition of a death trap on wheels with far more poise and fondness than that monstrosity warranted. “You don’t have to give me the spin on the legislation, Madam President.” Emma was still talking, and Regina narrowed her eyes, not sure whether she’d ever met another soul so skilled at imbibing titles of respect with that degree of scorn. “But if you think I’m trading in this little beauty anytime soon, think again.”

Emma closed the door, offering Regina a quick smirk. “Also, if you think _anyone_ is trading in cars any time soon, you might want to recount those votes. No one was worried about it, since we thought we had a while to fix it, but Kat seems to think you’re losing the labor caucus again.”

In a visible puff of exhaust, Emma’s car pulled away from the curb.

Regina felt her jaw clench. Of course she knew that. Kat was _her_ Communications Director, after all, but if this ridiculous woman Kathryn Nolan had hired didn’t start falling into line soon, a change could certainly be arranged. Communications Director up for Ambassador to Kyrgyzstan, stuck at the top of a mountain somewhere. Or, better yet, Kazakhstan, mountainy _and_ cold. Kathryn Nolan hated the cold.  


	5. Chapter 5

##  _Washington, D.C.  
__March 1 st_

///

Emma heard the thud of Regina’s palm against the desk and winced at the intensity of the sound. She gently closed the door. The whole West Wing didn’t need to hear this. When she turned, Regina was on her feet, the phone pressed against her ear, clutched tight in a white-knuckled hand. “What do you mean they changed their minds? They aren’t allowed to do that! Not unless they used to disagree with me!”

Emma could hear the weak, frightened chuckle of the man on the other end of the line crackle through the speaker, but Regina wasn’t pausing for laughter.

“The votes aren’t gone! Votes don’t disappear into thin air! I won’t lose this because some pansy populist Democrat can’t come to terms with the fact that there are only _two_ sides of this damn fence, and they need to stand on one of them! Mine! Get me back those votes!”

Regina wasn’t sure, but it had probably been close to forty hours since she had first been called into the Situation Room. She’d been out twice since, giving pre-written, facts-only statements to the press. Since the last briefing, she’d been trapped behind her desk, hunkered over the phone, torn between furious calls to the leadership that _now_ , of all times, they would turn chicken and decide to worship the gun lobby again for fear of _politicizing_ the tragedy, and gut-wrenching conversations with grieving family members she probably never should have agreed to make, as sobbing parent after sobbing parent pried useless words from her cold, tired lips about what a safe nation this was, how she would bring these bastards to justice and make sure no child ever died staring into the barrel of a gun on her watch again.

Which would be a damn sight easier to do if she wasn’t about to see her legislation voted down in the _Senate_ , of all places, as the news of the school shooting in California scrolled relentlessly in dates and times and numbers through the red footers of every newscast in the nation.

And to think, just yesterday, she had been so glad winter break was long since over, that Henry was happily back in school, not watching on the sidelines as this job got behind the steering wheel of a bulldozer and drove right over her. The energy initiative had stalled in Ways and Means _again_ , crude oil had just plunged below twenty dollars a barrel, and now fourteen middle-school aged children were dead in a Riverside County school, and Regina hadn’t managed to get the least controversial of the microstamping legislation through a _Democratic Senate_ in time to make any difference.

Now, it was all she could do not to call Henry every few minutes to check in with him, not to call a state of emergency in the District of Columbia just to get him home, safe, just to stop seeing flashes of brown-haired little boys in the crowd shots from the California evacuations. She wanted her son, wanted to be signing her bill into law _two months ago_ , but right now, she was ready to settle for grabbing the mic off the press podium and ripping the Gun Lobby a new one.

“Don’t you _dare_ hand me another script, Ms. Swan.”

“Ma’am—”

“—And don’t ‘ma’am’ me! Stop trying to manage me! If you are about to drag me back into the Briefing Room, you are going to hand me that mic, and I am going to say _exactly_   what is on my mind.”  

Slowly, Emma folded over August’s prepared words, tucking the paper into her blazer pocket. “Alright. What are you going to say?”

Regina clenched her hands so tightly she knew there would be nail marks on her palms, if she ever loosened them again. “That we could have _stopped this_. That we could have ended these _disgusting_ acts of humanity fifty years ago if we had half the balls of Australia, of Britain, countries half our size with twice our common sense. That I don’t know who killed those children and I don’t care, it doesn’t matter, because it could have been anyone. It doesn’t matter what they stand for, who hurt them, what they want. Because we’ve wasted too many years telling them that they _can_. And with every single shooting like this, we’re telling them again; pick up that gun, bring it into your school, reap the rewards, the attention, the fear of everyone in this nation, from the children you terrorized, to the Congressmen willing to enable it again, and again, and _again_. That there is evil in this world. Violence. But that nothing, _nothing_ has made that that violence so prevalent and so possible the way a gun has. That we will continue to pay for the sins of our _beloved_ founding fathers until the day we stop worshiping at the altar of the second amendment and start protecting our children again!”

Emma whistled, low and slow. “Well then.” She tugged the paper back out of her pocket. “That’s why I’ve got this.”

Regina audibly growled.

“You know why you can’t say that.”

“I most certainly do not.”

Emma stepped closer. “Regina.” At her name, the President’s furious, nervous motions stilled. “The nation needs reassurance right now, not rage.”

To Emma’s surprise, after another few seconds of stiff resistance, Regina nodded miserably. “Gold… Kathryn… they’ve said the same. I just… I feel so _responsible._ For all of it. And I should, of course. That’s my job.” She laughed breathlessly, and it was the weariest sound Emma had ever heard. “I know, in my gut, that horrible things are going to happen every day, beyond my control, no matter how hard I fight against them. But this, these children—” Her eyes pled with Emma for an answer, but Emma held her tongue, letting Regina finish. “—it doesn’t just feel like I’ve failed the nation. It feels like I’ve failed my _son_. So when you hand me these… these pitiful, spineless words…” She flicked the edge of the speech in Emma’s hand with a single finger. “Somehow, I thought you might see it differently.”

Emma sighed. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, I completely agree with everything you said, before, and I can’t tell you how personally vindicated I would feel listening to you say it, up there, right now, in front of the whole country. But, Regina… this isn’t the time, or the place.”

“When, then.”

Emma bit her lip. “Gold’s gonna kill me, but I still think you should go.”

Regina drew in a sharp breath. “To Riverside?”

“Yes. _Those_ people will appreciate the rage, the honesty. Those families are furious and grieving all at the same time, while the rest of the country is just… scared, and selfish. They want to be told nothing has changed, that nothing could happen to _them_. For Riverside, it’s too late. They want vengeance.”

Slowly, Regina took the paper from Emma’s outstretched hand, squaring her jaw. “You’re right,” she said. “I’ll have Ruby arrange it. Today—no. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, we go to Riverside. It will have to be an evening flight.” She skimmed the speech, eyes sparking with sudden fire as she quickly circled Emma’s still, startled form. Just before she reached the door, she paused, resting a hand on Emma’s bicep and squeezing gently. “And you. You’re coming with me.”

* * *

##  _Washington, D.C.  
__March 2 nd_

///

There had been some things about this job that impressed Emma. Her first time in the Oval had been one, the cinnamon chip scones had been a second, and Regina Mills, on any number of occasions, had been a third. But after nearly two months in the job, Emma genuinely believed she was done being wowed by the presidency. Honestly, before this job, she thought she was pretty much done with excitement altogether. Now, as the limousine pulled up beside the single plane resting on the tarmac, it was all she could do to keep the strange giddiness brewing in her chest from showing on her face. _It’s a plane. It’s_ just _an airplane. You’ve been on military planes. You’ve been on private planes before. Yeah, they were smaller than this, but still. Plane._

It didn’t help that the last person she’d slept with had been Lily, an aviation officer with a sexy little helicopter stationed with Emma’s unit, taking her up for a spin, and that had been so many years ago…

_Hell, for a few more cups of White House cocoa and seven years beside a window on that enormous, hulking, beautiful thing, I’d just about up and have Regina’s baby._

Emma coughed as blood rushed straight to her face when she realized where her thoughts had wandered, and she actually had to pound herself in the chest to get her breath back.

On the other side of the car, Regina raised a quizzical eyebrow, but dutifully ignored her wheezing Press Secretary. “I’ve arranged an office for you onboard. I know I’m pulling you out of an important cycle, and I want to make sure the press we have flying with us don’t swamp you unprepared,” she offered casually, oblivious to where her words would factor into Emma’s thoughts.

Regina leaned closer, then froze, wondering when this had happened, when they had started sitting beside each other instead of across an aisle, when it had become second nature to follow Emma out of the building most evenings, sometimes arguing, but always coming in the next morning feeling fresh and ready to face the day. When Emma had become the person on her staff she needed beside her to check her rage, protect her sanity. Not that she was complaining. “They never really sorted out… a few things. Lack of a First Lady, I mean, so I was able to pull a few strings and, well… I hope it works for you. The office. And the plane. I mean, of course the plane will work, I just… hope you like it and… It’s very… fast.”

Regina gulped, forcibly stopping her own incoherent babble. Somewhere between “I found you an office” and “it used to be reserved for the First Lady,” she had gotten a bit sidetracked by the mysterious flush in Emma’s cheeks and the strange look in those ambiguous eyes, and she had the distinct feeling she had ended up sounding far more like daddy’s little princess showing off her pretty pony than the President of the United States.

“Oh,” Emma said, voice slightly strangled. “I… I’m sure that’ll be great.”

The door opened, and Regina stepped to the side of the car, waiting for Emma to climb the stairs ahead of her. She was hyperaware of the cameras clicking around the motorcade, and wondered what the story would be. _President Mills Rushes Away from Troubles Abroad to Push Shameless Liberal Overreach on Gun Control. President Mills Leaves Experienced Chief of Staff Behind to Take Spontaneous Road Trip with Untested Press Secretary._

 _It’ll be_ President Mills Breaks a Heel on the Tarmac _if I don’t actually look where I’m going_ , she realized when she nearly walked straight into the side of a baggage cart. She used the forced pause to turn, offering the mandatory wave to the press before stepping onboard and shutting out the rest of the world for the brief, illusory respite of time in the air.

Kathryn met them at the cabin door, slipping a file into Regina’s unsuspecting hands. “You have a call, Madam President.”

Regina bit back a groan. Of course she did. “Very well. Put it through to the office. Kathryn, will you—”

“I’ll get Emma settled in. Don’t worry about it.”

* * *

##  _Riverside, California  
__March 3 rd  _

///

Emma stepped back, allowing Regina to take the podium in the subdued applause after her introduction.

She didn’t know what Regina would say. Gold had pressed five or six of August’s first drafts into her hands before she got in the limo that morning, but she had thrown them out before setting foot on Air Force One. This was Regina’s moment. This wasn’t a national address. To honor the wishes of the families, there would be no news crews, no flashes, no cameras. This was a funeral and a celebration, a call to arms, and a call to lay them down. And whatever the President said here, today, would be eulogy enough.  

“Yesterday, before I flew here to see you, I waved goodbye to my son. I watched him setting out for school like it was any other day, knowing I’d be gone before he came home.

“Across America, hundreds of thousands of parents do the same, morning after morning, for their sons and daughters, sending our hope for the future out into the world, lunchbox in hand, with a hug and a wave and a distant worry they might not come back again.

“Today, that fear sits much closer to the heart. Another mass shooting in America. The lives of fourteen children, lost. We’ll hear those words a hundred times in a single week, and then they will fade away, because this… This is no longer news. Gun violence is no longer news. It is a tragedy for a day, a crime for a week, and then it is just a statistic, fourteen more marks weighing heavy on the hearts of each mother and father as they send their children out into a world armed against them.”

On the screens in either corner of the room, Emma could see Regina staring out into the crowd, her stare focused, collected, and strong, but standing behind her, she could see Regina’s knuckles clenched white against the sides of the podium, see the faint tremors running up and down her thighs, the tension in the harsh set of her spine.

“I failed you.”  

Emma sucked in a breath.

“And not just the fourteen families who lost a child, here, this week. I have failed each of the seventy million fathers in America, each of the eighty-five million mothers, each of the seventy-four million children… including my own son.”

The slow, heavy breath she drew in echoed through the speakers.

“When I took the Oath of Office, I swore to preserve, protect, and defended our Constitution. Every President has done the same. In the first words we speak accepting the responsibility to lead this nation, we pledge ourselves to a piece of paper, before we pledge ourselves to our people, and in that moment, we have already failed. We have each pledged ourselves to the right of the man who shot your children to carry a gun instead of pledging ourselves to the right of each of you who would choose to live without fear.”

Emma kneaded worriedly at the seam of her back pocket, suddenly wondering how on earth she was going to sell the President of the United States taking back her Oath. If so much as a single smart phone had recorded that, Gold was going to kill her.

“And yet, I stand by that oath. I stand by my failure in the hope of change. And if nothing has changed in three years, then I aspire to fail you by taking that oath again. I will stand by my failure _knowing_ I will not leave higher office until the morning I send my son to school with less fear than I did the day you accepted my leadership. Because we _can_ stop this. We could have stopped it long ago. This is a violence those of us alive today inherited from our fathers, from our father’s fathers, but we do not have to live in the shadow of their mistakes.

“In this room, I can feel your grief. I can feel your mourning, your loss. But in your grief, I feel your anger. In your mourning, I feel your strength, and in your loss, I feel your passion. The wrath of those who have been wronged, the strength of those who have been injured, the desire of those who want to live without fear… these are the tools of change.

“This is not beyond our control. We are not powerless against the evil that has stolen these fourteen lives. This is within our grasp. Today, you have the thoughts and prayers of a nation standing beside you, but you can ask for more. You can ask for new laws, for new leaders. You can ask to live not just in freedom, but in freedom from fear. This is your right. This was _their_ right, the right of Caleb Barnes, Ben Little, David Newman and Rosa Serrano. Victoria Cook, Charlie Spencer, Eli Harris and River Rose. The right of Terciero Delgadillo. Tommy Burke. Theo Simpson. Xue Yongnian. Nancy Glenn. Rafe Mattos.”

As Regina named each victim, staring into the eyes of the immediate family members who had chosen to come, sitting together in the first few rows, Emma could hear her throat beginning to close, each new name a battle of its own.

“God bless their memory, God bless you, and God bless the United States of America. Thank you.”

Regina’s eyes latched on to Emma the minute she turned away from the solemn, applauding crowd, and it took all her remaining willpower not to go straight towards her. She walked down from the auditorium stage, acutely aware of Emma’s footfalls just behind her as the entered the wings, steered towards a more secure location by the security on all sides.

The moment they were safely inside the classroom where Secret Service had set up their operations, Emma found herself speared by the President’s wide, pleading eyes. Regina said nothing, made no move towards her, but in that moment, Emma knew what she was being asked for.

Slowly, she opened her arms, and accepted Regina’s head against her shoulder.


	6. Chapter 6

##  _Washington, D.C.  
_ _March 18 th_

///

D.C. was a mud pit. Any hint of snow had long since given way to its brown, icy, slushy brethren, lingering in alleys and at street corners in heaps of deeply unappealing sludge that no amount of almost-spring rain could wash away. The warm front was moving in, though, and the brutal winter was slowly but surely falling in its path. Regina could hear the faintest chirp of a lonely robin on the other side of the thick White House glass, and she greeted the sound with a sigh. Yes, she was more than ready for a genuine spring.

Regina was tired of winter, of chilly legs and thin, flattering coats and coffee that went cold twice as fast if she left it near a window. One would think, with all the effort they put into making those things bulletproof, they could do a little better by the environment and keep the heat inside where it belonged. More than the coffee, though, Regina was sick and tired of always being the one in a skirt. If her Press Secretary could get away with an off-the-rack blouse and the same pair of (admittedly quite flattering) black slacks four times a week at minimum, she could wear a pant suit every now and then, dammit. She could “play up her approachable femininity” the next time she had to get elected. Today, for this meeting, with _that woman_ , she was Commander in Chief, and she was wearing some goddamn pants.

By the time she knocked on the door of Emma’s office, she was late, but as she nervously ran her hands along the waist of her long, navy jacket and tugged at the seams on the sides of the matching straight-legged dress slacks, she couldn’t regret the extra minute. It wasn’t her usual camera-tested, just-past-the-knee skirt-suit that public opinion polling had been putting her in for years, but it felt like an extra line of defense, both against the unnecessary air conditioning that went off intermittently to counter the admirably aggressive West Wing heating, but also against the conversation she was about to have.

When Emma opened the door and proceeded to take an entirely unwarranted amount of time staring down the length of her body, the pantsuit suddenly felt as effective a shield as tissue paper.

“Madam President,” Emma murmured. 

“Ms. Swan.”

Emma glanced up sharply. In the time since her speech in Riverside, that moniker had fallen largely out of favor. Regina bit her lip, realizing a return to that greeting wasn’t going to be any better a distancing strategy than the pants.

“Emma,” she amended softly. “We need to discuss—”

“—Yesterday. I know.” She stepped aside, letting Regina in. “You’re the third one through my door this morning and I haven’t even gotten breakfast.” She was fidgeting visibly, twirling a pencil around and around in her fingers. “And you were the only one who bothered to schedule it. Some kind of irony in that.” She sighed. “Look, I know it wasn’t the best wording, but I—”

“—Not the best _wording_?” Regina finally lost patience. “You might as well have confirmed everything!”

“Well, I was never going to deny it, was I?”

Regina glowered at the row of news screens on Emma’s bookshelf, noticing that two channels were clearly still running the story. She walked over, turning up the volume on the nearest display.

_“Emma, can you give us some context for those pictures? That’s the third night you’ve been spotted out with the President’s executive assistant.”_

On screen, Emma looked visibly startled by the question. Honestly, Regina was, too. She hadn’t even realized Emma was friends with Ruby, let alone friendly enough to start that line of questioning into their relationship.

_“Ruby is a friend and coworker. That’s all the context there is.”_

_“_ Clickfeed _reported yesterday that you two had started dating. You deny it?”_

_“Of course I do. I just told you, she—”_

_“You’re single, then?”_

Even seeing it the third time, Regina wanted to yell at the Emma in that image to remind the press that her dating life was none of their goddamn business, but, of course, it was too late for that.

_“I am. And trust me, when I meet Mrs. Right, you’ll know.”_

The din in the press room after that line was deafening, and the news cast turned to commentary, so Regina turned it down again. “You just had to say ‘when.’”

“Well, yeah,” Emma offered. “I mean… I guess I was never in the public eye enough to be ‘out,’ but I’ve never been hiding, either.”

“You’re the face of my administration, Ms. Swan, and you didn’t think that was something you should inform me?”

“I… I mean… no?” Emma shrugged. “Look, maybe I meant to say ‘if,’ but I didn’t. I said ‘when.’ I’m not going to deny it now, and so far, it’s not hurting you.”

Regina shook her head. “That isn’t the point. I’ve seen the numbers.” She sighed, not looking Emma’s way. “God. You can be Press Secretary and a lesbian and I get political points. Meanwhile, if I kissed a woman, I’d get impeached. They can barely stand having a single mother in this office.”

That was the closest Emma had heard the President come to admitting what Kat had told her. “What _is_ the point, then? You knew that already,” she pressed. “I mean… _I’m_ not dating your secretary, but I’m pretty sure she’s a lesbian, too.”

“You haven’t researched it?”

“Okay,” Emma admitted. “I know your secretary is a lesbian.”

“Yes,” Regina huffed. “And when my secretary is a lesbian and a prominent but unconfrontational activist for the LGBT community, I get a bigger portion of the millennial vote and get to say a few words at the GLAAD Conference for Change on equal opportunity hiring in the federal government. Meanwhile, if I—If I…” She trailed off, staring as the text _First Openly Lesbian Press Secretary Emma Swan Discusses Dating Rumors_ scrolled across the nearest screen, Emma’s face looping through her “Mrs. Right” line for the umpteenth time on national television. “…If I’m out, I don’t get elected in two years,” she finished quietly.

Before Emma had a chance to offer more than an understanding, apologetic smile at the real confirmation she’d been waiting for, Regina plowed ahead. “The _men_ they find for me to take to these events, I mean, my God.”

Emma couldn’t help a slight chuckle. “I remember at least one cute one. Graham? What was he, CIA?”

Regina shook her head. “Graham was… indescribably generic. And public opinion polling found out too many people thought he looked like a serial killer, so… poof, he was gone.”

“Well, he had to have been better than the next one. Where did you even _find_ someone that… that…”

When Emma trailed off, Regina chuckled. “Oh, do go on. Insult away. Robin was probably the worst mistake of the past year. I think I picked him out of the stack—”

“—The _stack?_ ” Emma asked, incredulous.

Regina shrugged. “You think the President has time to go out and get a date the old fashioned way?”

Emma snorted. “Point.”

“Anyway, yes, there’s a stack of… well… Some of your people pull it together. PR people, I mean. Men who would make a nice addition to any given society event, a few leaked candid moments in the White House… No one asks questions, then. I think I picked Robin because he looked like such a character on paper. I thought we might actually have something in common. He was a huge activist in college, Socialist Alternative, some intense environmental activism on an iffy side of the law, any number of protest arrests… I couldn’t believe they even considered him. The file made him out like a twenty-first century Robin Hood.”  Regina rolled her eyes. “In person, he’s approximately as engaging and appealing as a dinner with a roomful of pine trees.”

Emma smirked at the image. “Hey. Wouldn’t want to insult a perfectly good pine tree. They… give us oxygen.”

Regina’s answering tone was scathing. “And they are utterly useless at it next to the green stuff in the oceans. I suppose if I had thrown Robin off the end of a pier, he might actually have become more interesting, too.”

Emma tried to keep a straight face, nodding sagely. “Ah, yes. The greatest test of Man. Just apply salt water.”  

Regina broke first, chuckling softly, and Emma joined her, enjoying the brief relief from the tension still lurking, unresolved, in the air after Emma’s words at that podium.

When their eyes locked again, Emma found herself unable to break the intensity of Regina’s gaze. “Is… I mean… Do you want my resignation? Is that what has to happen? Since I didn’t tell you?” It had been a long while since she’d stood this close to the President, and she felt a slight, untimely yearning to move even closer.

“No,” Regina said, far too quickly. In the past three months, half of the Press Corps and most of her own staff had fallen in love with the beautiful human sledgehammer of a woman that was Emma Swan. Regina wasn’t planning to let her go any time soon.

“No?” Emma repeated, giving in to the temptation, stepping closer.

Regina didn’t move back, but she did look away, scanning the room, settling on the little plate of apple slices and cheese on the corner of Emma’s desk. She smiled. On particularly bad mornings, Ruby liked to leave out food for the staff members she thought were least likely to remember to eat.  

“Why did you come, then?” Emma pressed, and suddenly, _close_  became _too close._

Regina breathed in sharply through her nose. There had been reasons. She was sure there were. Emma Swan was waiting for Mrs. Right, and that had felt like one hell of a reason not fifteen minutes ago, but now, she couldn’t for the life of her remember why.

“Because I… because…” She glared down at the apples. “How am I supposed to maintain the… even the _premise_ of any professional distance from you? Just look at us!” Regina gestured angrily at the distinct lack of space between them. Emma had them standing so close their thighs nearly touched, and Regina was already leaning just a little closer, giving up on the apples, needing a better angle to get lost in Emma’s eyes. “I’m in so much trouble,” she whispered.

“Because I’m gay?” Emma asked softly.

“Because you’re _here_.”

Emma bit her lip. 

“Because I’m about to make a mistake,” Regina continued.

Suddenly, Emma’s hand raised between them, and Regina found herself face-to-face with a single slice of apple.

Emma meant it as a peace offering, or maybe as a forced hesitation, but when Regina chuckled and murmured, “A bribe?” Emma answered with a nervous laugh of her own.

“Can’t expect anything else in Washington, can you?” She wiggled the apple. “And Ruby swears these are good for us.”

Regina sighed, accepting the apple with another nervous laugh. She held the fragile slice of fruit between two fingers, not eating it, just… holding it there, between them. “What Ruby doesn’t understand is that _privacy_ would be even better.” She took a deep breath. “You’ve managed to be here three months before anyone even thought to _ask_ who you were sleeping with. God, I envy you that. I’m never alone. That’s part of the problem. Do you have any idea how nervous you’ve managed to make me? I’m completely incapable of coherent conversation around you,” she admitted. “I… babble.” Regina actually shuddered a bit, repulsed by the word even as it passed her lips.

“Nah,” Emma lied. “You’re perfectly suave, as always. You’ve charmed the entire nation, even the ones who hate you.”

“And you, Ms. Swan?”

“You’ve seen me with a chocolate mustache. No charming necessary.”

Regina finally slipped the apple into her mouth, chewing more aggressively than was strictly necessary. She couldn’t afford to smile again. “This doesn’t end well, Emma. You know what they are going to say, next. The logical step from you sleeping with a pretty younger woman is to you, sleeping with your boss.”

Emma wrinkled her nose. “Ew. Kat’s like a sister to me. Everyone knows we’d never—”

“—Your boss’s boss, then,” Regina clarified, impatient.

Emma scuffed her foot against the carpet. “I knew what you meant,” she admitted. “I just… we don’t have to tempt fate, alright? They haven’t grabbed it yet. You’ve got a stack of men at the ready if they do. Maybe they won’t.”

Wrapping an arm around her stomach, Regina nodded wearily. “Nothing to grab, anyway,” she muttered, staring at the apples again.

“Yeah.” Emma stared up at the ceiling, breathing shallow and strained. “Nothing.”


	7. Chapter 7

##  _Washington, D.C.  
_ _April 5 th_

///

_“You know, John, there’s been a lot of speculation since the Riverside trip back in March. The President hasn’t been seen with anyone on her arm in over six months, but she and that Press Secretary have been awful close. Today, some sources seem to think they’ve got the scoop: Emma Swan, photographed two days in a row picking up Henry Mills outside St. John’s Secondary School alongside several Secret Service agents. Is this the sign of a new Mrs. Mills?”_

_“I’m not ready to call it a done deal, Jake, but it_ would _explain a few things. There has been a lot of speculation about why Senator Mills made such a conservative choice of running mate two years ago; this kind of secret could be the answer.”_

Emma sighed, turning off the news screen as she settled beside the President on the green couch in her East Wing office. Shoes were still on, this time, and the cups of tea on the table hadn’t been touched. “So. The luck didn’t hold.”

Regina shook her head. “No. It didn’t.” All the distance in the world wouldn’t have helped; there were two single women in the White House, how scandalous, how sensational. The distance had happened all on its own, or, rather, with a bit of help from a national security crisis Emma wasn’t cleared to hear about, but all that had meant was a frantically overworked Regina practically throwing Emma at her son, asking her to spend time with him, to meet him after school when she couldn’t be there, to catch her in the hallway at least once or twice and let her know how Henry was doing without her. “It was never going to.”

Emma’s lips curved into a resigned smile. “You and I know what’s true. Isn’t that supposed to be what matters?”

“You’re the Press Secretary. You’re supposed to know better.”

Emma shrugged. “I can make us old news, if that’s what you want. Punch a reporter, maybe. That should take us off the air for at least half a day.” She cocked her head to the side. She bit her lip, but it would have taken a bullet to stop her next words. “Would it really be so horrible, though? People thinking there’s something between us? If it weren’t for the job, of course, I mean.”

_Smooth, Swan. Very smooth. Even_ I’m _not sure what I just asked her._

“And yet, the job exists.”

“Okay, but, I mean… what, would you never date a single employee of the federal government? Because you’re the boss’s boss’s boss of all of them.”

Regina didn’t rise to the bait. “If not the job, there’s the lovely matter of the public opinion polling.”

“You’re not even out and someone’s already been asking America how they’d like you with a First Lady?”

“Of course they have.”

“And what does America say?”

“Their favorite word: no.”

At Regina’s dispassionate answers, Emma sighed. “So. I guess that’s that. What do I tell the press?”

Regina stood, pacing between the couch and the coffee table. “I suppose you could tell the _press_ that my administration is a disaster, that, yes, my Vice President is one of my worst enemies, that I had to  _beg_ her onto the ticket with me, did you know that? Because they’re right, _John_ and _Jake_ on _Channel Eight_ … I needed her, a morally conservative Democrat—can you believe there’s still one _alive?_ —just to balance out _my existence_. My politics were hardly left of center back then but… Latina, a single mother… These newscasts are déjà vu. You remember the rumors. Then again, if you don’t, maybe you should remind the press about the last time they were nosing around my sexuality: _The Senate Sweetheart_ and _Her, The Dragon of Wall Street_ , Mal and I being dragged through the papers like I was cheating on some imaginary husband just by spending time with another brilliant woman and I—”

“Regina, you don’t have to tell me this,” Emma said softly. She stood, crossing the floor. This was the most time alone she’d had with the President in weeks, and she didn’t want to spend it watching Regina agonize over campaign decisions long since made.

“—I wouldn’t _do_ that again. I’ve already learned I can’t have a life while I’m in office, I know I can’t—”

“I know,” Emma continued, stepping closer. “I understand.” She reached out, capturing one of Regina’s hands between her own, stopping the pacing in its tracks. “I’ve been right where you are. I’m not pushing, I’m just—”

“—I can’t,” Regina repeated, but she didn’t have the heart for any real denials. Not when she had Emma’s fingers tangled with her own, the first welcome human contact she’d had in days… “I can’t do this again.”

Emma stared silently into her eyes, and that was invitation enough.

She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around her Press Secretary’s solid, lanky form, sighing when Emma’s actions mirrored her own. She let her face rest in the crook of Emma’s neck, wondered how similar their heights would be if she kicked off her heels. Her heart was working double time, but she could feel Emma’s pulse racing to catch up, and she drew in a deep, comforting breath, catching the faintest hint of the signature potpourri she knew a White House designer liked to leave in the offices of her senior staff, and something beneath that, simple and clean and… Nice. This was so, so nice. And in that moment, Regina envied every soul in the world who could have this for their own without complications, without repercussions, without… fear.

_Jesus_. Emma pressed her face into Regina’s hair, wishing desperately that Regina was feeling everything she was in this moment. She squeezed a little tighter, knowing that the two or three seconds that could still mean nothing more than friendly, comforting contact had long since passed, that, if this wasn’t going to become something else, she needed to let go, but that she wasn’t going to be able to do it. She breathed in deeply, readying herself to speak, but instead, felt the softest contact against the side of her throat. She went completely still, eyes wide and unseeing. _Oh, no. Oh, God, she’s kissing me._

Regina pressed her lips against Emma’s soft skin a second time, just a bit lower, reveling in the tiny change she could feel in the texture of Emma’s flesh, little goosebumps rising to greet her lips. And her lips were so _warm_ , like all the heat in the rest of her body had fled, racing towards the first place it might melt the stiffness away from the woman in her arms. She could feel the almost painful intimacy of her own motions, feather light kisses heavy with _mistake, mistake!_ But it just felt so _necessary_ to finally stop dancing around politics and arguments and words, words, words.

She pressed closer, parting her lips, just brushing Emma’s throat with her mouth, feeling her pulse beat faster in response, and in that moment, she knew no words had ever tasted as good on her lips as Emma’s skin.

Emma’s fingers crept up into her hair with aching slowness, neither pressing her closer, nor pulling her away, but the scrape of nails against her scalp made Regina shiver, and she wanted revenge. She pulled back, straightening just enough that she could press forward again, claiming Emma’s lips before she could convince herself of one more possible reason not to. There wasn’t room for fear, here, only the instinctual rightness of this, of losing herself in the kiss, the press of Emma’s tongue against her own, the strange little sounds in the back of her Press Secretary’s throat that she never could have imagined her making, the feeling of teeth against her bottom lip that proved _yes_ , _oh yes,_ this was exactly what had been waiting between them, in every heated word, every tense silence, knees inches apart in the back of the limousine, hands brushing over the podium as Emma relinquished the mic… Every inch of that had been this, had been desire, and now, she could taste it.

It was half adrenaline, really, the thrill of one chase ending and knowing another had already begun, rabid reporters hot on the heels of what hadn’t even become an affair, but whatever it was, Regina was in, all the way, body responding, fingers and toes curling, stomach clenching as Emma’s grip on her waist pulsed straight into her blood.

When they finally parted, Regina sucked in air through lips she wasn’t sure belonged to her anymore, completely at a loss for words, head floating away from her, vanished somewhere well beyond the White House, mind eloping with common sense in a hot air balloon and leaving her behind on the ground with nothing but heart and _want_ and Emma Swan.

“That was… um…” Emma scrambled for words, for composure, but all she found were Regina’s wide, wanting eyes, and she was half a second away from pulling her right back in.

“Hey, Mom, Ruby said I’d find—”

The door opened, and Emma found herself staring over Regina’s shoulder right into Henry’s eyes.

“—you here.”

Emma was already pulling back, but Regina’s hands seemed to be going with her, not letting go of her arms.

“Henry,” Regina said softly, maintaining careful, unreadable eye contact with Emma as she held her in place with nails and fingertips alone. “Would you give me two minutes to finish up this discussion with Ms. Swan? Then we can head home early, alright?”

Emma could see Henry staring at them, ignoring her request. Slowly, a grin spread across his lips. “Yeah, Mom, sure. I saw on the news, you know, about you two. You could have told me; I think it’s great!”  

Regina’s expression didn’t change, and Emma didn’t know what to say, so she was infinitely glad when Henry stepped back towards the door. “Maybe Emma can come home with us? She makes a bomb grilled cheese.”

Emma could have sworn his grin was the last thing to disappear as the door swung shut.

Regina immediately stepped away from Emma, spinning towards the couch and bracing herself against it. “And this, Ms. Swan, is why this can’t happen.”

Emma froze. “Wait, what? You heard the kid. He didn’t see anything, and even if he had, he’s fine with it.”

“And the next person? My Head of Security? My Chief of Staff? The _Clickfeed_  reporter who just got his press pass approved for your briefing room?”

“So we’re discreet!” Emma spluttered, unable to make the leap from Henry’s enthusiastic acceptance to Regina’s harsh denial.

Regina snorted. “Don’t you understand? There is no _discretion_ in the White House. We can barely keep our national security secrets out of your reporters’ hands long enough to run rescue missions! We have the worst kept secrets in the country.  _Personal_ secrets don’t even have the luxury of a clearance code.”

Emma was standing right beside her, but Regina wouldn’t look her in the eye.

“You can’t do that again.”

Emma jerked back, Regina’s dismissal as clear and harsh as a slap. “ _Excuse me?_ You kissed _me!_  What, next time I just don’t kiss you back?”

“Next time you have some common sense!” Regina snapped. “I’m paying _you_ to be my sanity, remember?”

For the first time, Emma registered the strain in Regina’s voice, the crack at the end of the question, and for the first time, it occurred to her that the President was a little bit… scared.

She reached out a hand, pressing two fingers against Regina’s shoulder, turning her into her arms. “Regina,” she muttered. “Regina Mills. You could pay me with the state of Texas, and it wouldn’t be enough to think kissing you is less important than sanity.”

“Texas is a horrible state,” Regina murmured, reaching up and tracing Emma’s cheekbone with the tip of one finger. “How about Maine, in the summer.”

Emma shook her head. “Still not worth it. I’d visit with you and Henry, though.”

At Henry’s name, Regina stilled again, the moment of vulnerability disappearing behind a mask of displeasure. “Henry—”

“—is waiting,” Emma finished. “I know.” She leaned in, pressing a quick kiss against Regina’s unresisting lips. “And you should go home with him.” She reached up, brushing her thumb over the tiny scar that had captured her attention that first day in the hall, revealed even in the dim light now that their kisses had smudged aside Regina’s executive concealer. “I just want you to know you don’t have to do this alone. I adore your kid. I’ve kept your secrets. And I don’t have to be one of them, a secret, but I can be, if that’s what you need. At this point, I’m pretty sure the only thing stopping you from kissing me again is your own pride.”

Regina’s lips twitched. “That,” she admitted. “And the entire electorate of the Midwest.”

“Honestly, Regina… screw the Midwest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, but there are at least three more significant political events already written out, but that didn’t end up making the final cut here for time’s sake. Which resulted in this interesting reality where you don’t know who Regina’s Vice President is, among other things. Between that and the intense lack of resolution after only two years in office, the lack of all things Swan Queen future, I… well… let’s just say I’m probably going to get back to this universe sometime.


End file.
